


Monstrous

by Maiden_of_Asgard



Category: Loki - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, Castles, Darkness, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Gothic, Halloween Challenge, Horror, Isolation, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, Obsession, Poisoning, Post-Canon, Prisoners, Sexual Coercion, Smut, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Vampire Loki (Marvel), Vampires, Álfheimr | Alfheim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-07 00:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16398212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_Asgard/pseuds/Maiden_of_Asgard
Summary: Thor just wanted his brother back.When Loki is set loose from Hel with a thirst for blood and a burning hatred for the living, Thor has no choice but to hide him away where he cannot cause chaos, trapping him in a castle imbued with powerful magic.But Loki still hungers.The Allfather cannot bring himself to subject an innocent to his brother’s impulses, but when a prisoner of Asgard begs to avoid the executioner’s blade by any means necessary, it seems that the Norns have granted him some small measure of relief.After all, a warped brother is better than no brother at all… isn’t he?





	1. In Stasis

The dark of night was thick on Midgard when they landed, and Branwen desperately twisted in the king’s grip, eager to catch one last glimpse of the stars before she was led under the heavy cover of the trees. A heavy, oppressive silence pervaded the forest around them, the light clanking of the chains of her manacles standing out in stark contrast.

The king had refused to meet her eyes ever since he’d released her from her cell, ever since Branwen had agreed that she would accept _any_ punishment for her treason, if _only_ he would spare her life. This sneaking about in silence was uncharacteristic of Thor Odinson; it set her nerves even more on-edge.

It had been centuries, at least, since she’d last been to Midgard. Once Odin Allfather had tightened his grip on the rest of the Nine, it had been in many respects abandoned by those of the other realms, its inhabitants left to grow and evolve under the benevolent-yet-distant watch of the Æsir.

Those among the elven-kind who had once thrived on mortal life dwindled and waned, and Branwen had little doubt that she was likely the only elf to currently stand on Midgardian soil.

Why had the king brought her _here,_ of all places?

It was said that the mortals feared and envied those with magic, with knowledge, _longevity…_ all of the things that they lacked. It was said that they used their crude machinery on anything beautiful and natural and beyond their comprehension, twisting and destroying it out of fear and greed.

Thor Allfather was a well-known ally of the mortals; perhaps he meant to turn her over to their scientists for their experiments. Perhaps this was to be her punishment.

Her skin crawled.

Through the narrow gaps in the trees, she soon made out grey stone walls, and moments later, the king led her into a clearing. In the faint moonlight, she could make out the towering walls of some time-worn castle, the door and windows she could see all boarded up with stone.

For a time, the king simply stood in front of the entryway, his head bowed. “Understand this, lady,” he finally said. “This is to be your prison and your punishment, for as long as is necessary.”

As Branwen gaped at him, her fingers digging anxiously into the thin chain leading from her wrists, she realized that his eyes were closed.

_Shame._

She had always had a knack for reading faces, and the Allfather was _ashamed -_ shamed and _grieving._

Her mouth went dry, and she licked her lips, trying to gather the nerve to speak. “Sire, I do not… I do not _understand.”_

“No one will,” he replied. “No one can.” The king’s eyes opened, then, though he still would not look at her. “My brother is here.”

Branwen gaped; had the king gone mad? Everyone knew that the younger prince had _perished._ Was this some sort of crypt? Was this the final resting place of Loki Laufeyson, God of Lies? Was this her punishment, to be left here on Midgard, some sort of eternal guardian for his grave?

“After all that we all that we lost, and all that we saved…” The king sighed and finally turned to her, expression guarded. “You must understand, I had to try to save him, too.”

Her heart sped, though she did not yet entirely understand _why._ “And the attempt, Allfather?”

“A cruel trick. I bargained with our sister to set him free, but she returned him to this world as a shade, a _creature—”_ His deep voice broke suddenly, and the king turned back to the doorway before them. When he continued, his voice was barely audible. “He must sustain himself with the living.”

She took a sharp step backwards on instinct, though she didn’t dare flee; she had nowhere to go but the axe, after all, and she could not hope to run from the King of the Nine Realms, not on foot, not stranded on Midgard. There were no allies here who might help her, no friendly faces.

“You will not… There is no reason for him to unduly harm you,” he continued. “‘But he needs blood, and in good conscience, I cannot allow him to roam free, I must—” He cut himself off abruptly again, running an agitated hand through his close-cropped hair. “Loki will destroy or be destroyed, if he is set loose. I must protect the realms from him. I must protect him from those who would not understand.”

“But sire,” Branwen said desperately, “is this creature from Hel truly even the brother that you knew? Would it not be a kindness for him to… to be allowed to rest?”

“I would rather him endure in shadow than to perish! He was not meant for Hel; my brother— Loki died a warrior’s death. He should’ve seen Valhalla.”

He pressed his hand to the door, then, and a black wave of magic crackled and buzzed across the stones. “The power of the King of Asgard seals him here, elf. I thought it safest to hide him on Midgard; the mortals are less likely to notice the magic. I was never one for magic.”

“Then I am to be sealed in with him. A sacrifice.” Fear, odd thing that it was, almost seemed to detach her from the reality of it all. As he took her arm and guided her closer to the doorway, his head slightly bowed, Branwen almost felt as if she were floating.

_But aren’t I?_ she thought. _I will be no better than a ghost, now._

“I _did_ allow you the choice, Lady Branwen,” he replied. The king took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “I will find a way to free him of this curse, and if you still endure when I do… I will consider your life-debt repaid. I might even owe _you_ one in kind.”

And before she could voice any further protests, he pushed her through the now-transparent stone. As she spun on her heel, the last look that she saw on the face of Thor, King of Asgard, was one of sorrow.

Then the stone turned solid once more, and Branwen was alone in darkness.

 

* * *

 

She was able to sense his presence long before he made himself known to her.

For what seemed like an eternity, Branwen stumbled through pitch-black hallways, twisted half-sideways as she tried to keep her bound hands brushing against the walls for guidance. Though her eyesight was keen, in such a total lack of light, even she could make out nothing of her surroundings.

It was very cold.

The gown that she had worn during her stay in the dungeon beneath the palace was a plain, thin sort of thing, woven from some drab brown cloth that scratched at her skin. Her cell had been comfortable and warm, at least, and so she had not truly minded; now, she longed for a bodice, for full skirts, for _armor…_

_Anything_ to shield her, no matter how futile it may be, from the _monster_ that waited for her in this dark place.

Branwen had very little in the way of magic, and like most of the Ljósálfar, she’d never bothered to learn more than some very simple charms; spellwork and sorcery were for the Vanir, while the elves relied upon their instinct and their cunning. Had she known any sort of sorcery, perhaps she might’ve conjured a light for herself, at least. Perhaps she might’ve been able to find a way to save herself.

Instead, all she had was the awareness that Loki Laufeyson was _watching_ her, stalking her though the halls. The impression of his power was a vague thing, and she could not tell exactly _where_ he was, but the fact that he was there was indisputable.

She pretended that she could not sense him.

Why he allowed her to wander about helplessly for so long, Branwen could not begin to imagine. If, like the king seemed to believe, the creature was desperate for _blood…_ why would he not simply strike and be done with it?

_He is playing with his food,_ a voice in her head whispered. _He is enjoying your fear._

The air eventually changed, her echoing footsteps leading her to believe that she’d come out of the narrower passageways into some sort of large hall. She took a few hesitant steps forward, her hands outstretched, and then another few, but her fingertips found nothing.

She’d never thought to fear the dark, before tonight. Now, the weight of it choked her.

When flames flickered to life in the sconces along the walls, Branwen was so taken aback that she screamed, despite her promises to herself that she’d be brave in the face of this _monster_ that had once been Loki of Asgard.

She was not prepared for him to look so much like a _man._

Though, perhaps it was true that he looked more wraith than man, as he sat sprawled on his throne at the far end of a room that she was certain had once been very grand.

Whatever it had once been, it stood empty now, save for the throne and the creature upon it. Something inside of her urged her to turn at once and flee; another part whispered that he would easily catch her. If he still had the powers that he’d been so renowned for during his lifetime, he might even be able to stop her without leaving his seat.

“The king of Asgard was outside my home,” he said, and as she drew near to him, she could see the red of his eyes as they glittered, could make out the slightly-unnatural sharpness of his eyeteeth. “And now _you,_ elf-maid, are inside of it.”

Branwen held her arms defensively against her chest, wishing dearly that they were free, so that she might at least wrap them around herself to fend off the cold.

“Closer, come closer,” he crooned, “else I will come to you, and I will be very cross about it.” When she stood no more than a few paces in front of him, he leaned his head in his hand, feigning apathy.

She knew it was a lie; she could see the tensing of his muscles, his quick, shaky breathing. The monster was _very_ pleased to see her.

“Why are you here, elf-maid?”

“I am Branwen,” she said, “and I am here to serve out the punishment for my crimes against the Throne.”

He seemed to find that amusing, though the slight twist of his lip disappeared almost immediately. The look of practiced boredom slipped back into place as he slouched in his throne, his legs splayed wide.

“You are one of the Lindar, aren’t you?” he said. “You call yourselves _Singers._ And a noblewoman, I’d expect; I’ve heard many a bard sing the praises of the silver-haired women of the Ljósálfar court in olden times, though I believe the current ruling houses are a bit more… _golden.”_

She clasped her hands together, her nails digging into her skin. The last thing she wanted to discuss with this creature was Elven _politics,_ but at least that was preferable to what was certain to follow. “There are few of us left,” she said simply.

“Indeed.” His head cocked, and for a moment, Branwen might’ve sworn that he was looking inside of her. “Well, well. Not _entirely_ Ljósálfar, are you, little elf-maid? Is that how you came to be here?” The smile that spread appeared on his lips then was cold; she far preferred his look of apathy. “Did your _darker_ impulses land you in trouble?”

Fearful though she was, Branwen bristled. “You would be hard-pressed to find many Light Elves that do not have a _single_ drop of Dark Elf blood in them. After the Great War—”

He raised a hand, and she fell silent. “I know your realm’s history, and I do not _care.”_ When he stood, she took a step back, instinctively retreating, and the way that the former-prince’s eyes lit up made her stomach churn.

“I asked why you were here, and you’ve told me the reason for your arrival, but you’ve yet to speak of your _purpose._ What is your _purpose_ here, elf?”

The creature knew why she was there; she could see it on his face, the barely-contained excitement, the disgust, the _hunger…_ Forcing her to speak of it was simply another cruelty for him - another _amusement._

She’d always wanted to be brave, like the princesses of old, the warrior-maidens who’d shown no fear in the face of certain doom. Squaring her shoulders, she fixed her eyes on one of the bronze buckles on his leather vest. It helped, in some small way, that the words she spoke sounded too surreal to possibly be _true._

“I am here,” she said, “to feed you.”

He grinned, a twisted, mocking sort of thing that seemed terribly out-of-place on a face that, in other circumstances, she might’ve thought very handsome. “What a _despicable_ little creature you are,” he said, and Branwen tried to shift further away from him, for there was a certain madness in his eyes that only became more fearsome as he drew near to her. “The Allfather, in his _divine_ wisdom, sends a wretched little half-blood brat to sustain me! _A traitor for the traitor.”_

She was quick, but he was quicker, and he caught hold of the thin chain between her manacles, dragging her close. “When you were a child, did they tell stories of the Jötnar on Alfheim?”

_What was he talking about?_

But every second she spent entertaining the monster was a moment more that she might hope to wake up from this nightmare, and so she scrambled for a response. “They did,” she said. “They said that the Frost Giants would come, and that they would take the bad children away to…”

Her heart pounded, the reason for this seemingly-random train of inquiry suddenly striking her.

“Go on,” he urged, eyes dark. “Go on.”

“To take them away… to feast on them.”

The prince laughed again, taking a step back towards his throne and pulling her with him. “As I _am_ Jötunn, then, perhaps this is merely _destiny._ The Norns do love their little pranks.”

Another step.

Then another.

It took only a moment for him to reach his former seat, and as he took his place, he gave the chain a particularly vicious yank, forcing her to fall awkwardly onto him. Branwen braced her hands against his chest in a desperate bid to reclaim her balance as he seized her by the backs of her thighs, dragging her firmly onto his lap, her bunched-up skirt revealing _much_ more than she would’ve liked.

His thinly-veiled temper seemed to suddenly snap at her struggling, and he grabbed a fistful of her long hair, pulling so tightly that she was forced to crane her neck. It _hurt,_ and her eyes watered.

“I had thought to deny myself, at first,” he told her as he idly stroked the skin of her thigh with his thumb, his grip on her hair unrelenting. “Such a disgusting, _wretched_ existence… but I can hear your heartbeat, elf. I can smell your blood - can practically _taste_ it already.”

Hope sparked at the mention of his self-denial, quickly extinguished by the captivated, _appalled_ look in his eyes as he fixated on her throat.

He took a shaky breath, and as his lips slightly parted, she spied sharpened canines. _Fangs,_ she thought, feeling faint. _This is truly happening._ Any resolve she’d had to meet her fate bravely instantly dissipated.

“Please,” Branwen cried, _“please,_ sire - you were once a _noble_ man, a _prince—”_

“And a king, for a time. But none of that _mattered,_ did it? I was always the _monster.”_

Tears streamed down her cheeks as he brought his mouth to her throat, and when his teeth lightly scraped her skin, she shoved against him with all of her might.

It did nothing to dislodge him, but he _did_ draw back slightly - whether from confusion or anger, she couldn’t be certain. “Please,” she sobbed, “Prince Loki, _please,_ do not do this.” When he flinched at the sound of his name, she quickly latched on to that last little bit of hope.

“Prince Loki?” Branwen’s voice cracked, and his eyes narrowed.

“I will grant you one kindness,” he told her, “and only one.” A vague sort of emerald shimmer danced around his eyes, and Branwen found herself transfixed. “I am able to enthrall you, elf - I can lock you away in your own mind, steal your consciousness away from this place.” As he leaned closer, she felt her breath catch in her throat, terrified that even a whimper might jar him from this sudden bout of calm.

“Would that not be best?” His voice was sibilant, his lips barely brushing against the shell of her ear. His tongue found her neck, next, and she could not contain the shudder that rippled through her as his teeth grazed her skin. “I can take away this fear,” he whispered. “Your _shame.”_

Somewhere deep in the haze of her mind, Branwen struggled to make her choice, though the attention that the late prince was currently paying to her throat led her to believe that she likely had very little time.

“Well?” Loki prompted, seemingly frustrated that he’d been forced to tear his mouth from her skin in order to look her in the eye. “Decide quickly - and _know,_ elf, that I will not make such a generous offer again.”

If he were to hypnotize her, _bespell_ her… it was true that she might escape the reality of it, but that did not mean that she would _truly_ escape him. In fact, it would very likely render it nigh-impossible for her to _ever_ escape him, even if an opportunity did miraculously present itself.

She’d seen mortals under elf-thrall before, many, _many_ centuries ago; it was not a pleasant thing. If she kept her wits about her… at least she might still retain some of her agency.

At least she would not be _complicit._

“No.”

_“No?_ You would prefer to remain _aware_ for this?”

He seemed irritated, and she _dearly_ hoped that it was because he secretly dreaded the thought of causing her pain, or that she’d somehow managed to unsettle him, to make him remember that he’d once been a royal and—

The prince laughed suddenly, a sharp, grating sound that prompted her to resume her struggling once again. “You are a fool,” he said, and then he sank his teeth into the delicate skin at the juncture of her neck.

Branwen cried out - it _hurt,_ and he’d taken such a firm hold of her hair that she couldn’t possibly wriggle away from him. Instead, she clutched at the leather of his coat, squeezing tightly as the crushing pain of his bite increased.

Something wet trickled down her collar. Blinking furiously, Branwen tried - and failed - to ignore the metallic tang in the air, tried to ignore the fact that, despite her terror, a _bizarre,_ fuzzy sense of warmth began to spread through her veins.

The pressure abated for a moment, and she felt his tongue slide against her torn skin. It soothed away the burning, an effect so immediate, so _startling,_ that she could not contain a strangled groan.

Then the pain was back at once, sharper than before, the pressure on her skin bruising. Black spots began to appear around the edges of her field of vision, and some part of her vaguely wondered if he intended to rip the hair from her head; it certainly _felt_ like it.

She’d expected him to stop, at some point. It was clear that she was meant to accommodate his _urges_ for some time, and certainly that meant that he would not kill her outright, but…

The dark spots began to blur and blend together. In the distance, she could hear a buzzing sound, growing louder and louder.

At least the pain was beginning to fade, and as she slipped away into the darkness, the last thought that she had was that perhaps she should be thankful to have died so quickly.

 

* * *

 

Branwen woke with a throbbing head and a strong urge to vomit.

The coppery smell of her own blood was such a potent thing that she feared she might never be rid of it - and if the prince had his way, that was likely true. Really, she was surprised to find that she was still alive at all; it was difficult to _not_ be relieved to find herself still breathing, though some part of her whispered that she might be much better off if she wasn’t.

At least her hands were no longer bound together, though the manacles still weighed heavy on her wrists. What had he done with the chain connecting them?

She was in a bed. This much was certain, just from the feel of softness and tangled blankets beneath her, though her head began to swim as soon as she attempted to sit up to survey her surroundings. Squeezing her eyes closed, she breathed slowly, willing her inner fire to rekindle.

_In. Out. In. Out._

“I have always been fascinated by elf-healing.”

At the sound of his voice, she flinched, but she managed somehow to keep her breaths steady.

_In. Out._

“The speed at which you are able to regenerate, _particularly_ without the use of proper seiðr, is astounding. An excellent quality in a meal, I suppose.”

Branwen finally managed to push herself up onto her elbows, glaring at her fellow prisoner as he stood on the far side of the dimly-lit room, an arrogant smirk on his face. She scooted back to prop herself against the headboard before her tiny burst of strength fled entirely, having no desire to find herself flat on her back and helpless as he stalked towards her.

Other than a few sconces on the walls and the flickering candles they contained, the room she now found herself in was almost entirely bare. From its rounded shape, she assumed that she must be in a tower, and the presence of windows provided another clue that she was, at least, above-ground.

If only the windows were not walled up with stone.

She watched with a wary eye as he moved around the side of the bed, looming over her. There was no blood on him, from what she could see, and she looked down to assess her own state; unfortunately, the sharp motion combined with the sight of the crimson staining the neck of her gown combined most unpleasantly, and Branwen fell back against the headboard as the cold, clammy feeling of a near-faint swept over her once again.

“You’ve nearly killed me,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he replied, “I suppose I have. I’d thought that I would be able to maintain some semblance of self-control, but I’m afraid I was unprepared for your _whorish moaning.”_

He had the _nerve_ to look angry with _her,_ and Branwen bristled. “How _dare_ you—“

“How _dare_ I? Allow me to remind you that you are - by your own admission - here to _serve_ me. You are here to _feed_ me. My whims, my _appetites…_ they are now your _law._ Do you understand? Whatever you were outside of this place, _Lady,_ you are nothing now.”

His smile was mocking, but Branwen could see true rage in his eyes, and she quailed as he leaned over her. _“Nothing,”_ he repeated, “aside from what the monster decides to make of you.”

Abruptly, he straightened and walked back to the shadowy spot where he’d originally stood, hefting a weathered old forest-green bag. “I found this just inside the doorway to my little _realm._ I assume that it is yours?”

She nodded.

“How _caring_ of Thor, to leave you with some of your trinkets. Perhaps he believes this absolves him of the heavy sin of condemning you to _me.”_

Branwen said nothing; the prince was all bitterness and acid and _loathing,_ and she wanted nothing to do with him.

“I will allow you to keep it,” he said, dropping the bag onto the floor as if he thought it might contaminate him. “I found nothing useful in it.”

_No,_ she thought. _The only useful thing I have is not stored in that bag._ For in truth, the _only_ useful thing Branwen had managed to smuggle with her into prison was a tiny vial of poison, stitched into the seam of her gown.

She’d been told that she was to take it, if things grew too dire, if she was captured and questioned. _An honorable death._

But Branwen had not been ready to die, and even now… even now, she somehow managed to fear death more than she feared _him._

He held out his hand, and a tray appeared on it. Her surprise must’ve been evident. “I am only able to summon what already exists within the bounds of my prison,” he said, dropping the tray unceremoniously onto the bed beside her. “Eat.”

She stared at the tray, her stomach lurching. _He intends to fatten me,_ she thought, _like an animal for slaughter._ Her pride - what remained of it - wouldn’t allow it.

“No.”

“No?” The prince sat down beside her, his smile blade-thin. “I will make use of you, whether you _choose_ to eat or not. I won’t allow you to die, elf, but you’ll weaken greatly if you attempt to starve yourself, and I cannot imagine that you would enjoy being even more pathetic than you already are.”

Branwen clenched her teeth; she wanted to spit at him, to _strike_ him. At the very least, she would not _answer_ him. The creature that had once been Loki Silvertongue would only find amusement in any of her protests, she knew.

He laughed - if it could be called that, for the sound was more of a rough bark than anything resembling true humor. “I will force-feed you, if I must,” he said. “Is that what you want? Do you suppose that it will make you seem stronger, somehow, to struggle this way?”

That was absurd; the man who thought himself grand enough to rule the Nine would not stoop to anything so _mundane,_ would he? She might be prideful, but Loki Laufeyson’s pride was a thing of _renown._ She turned her head slightly, her nose in the air, doing her utmost to feign dismissiveness. He might rage and storm, or he might try to use his serpent-tongue to twist her mind, but she could only assume that he would never _demean_ himself by feeding his own _meal._

When he seized hold of her chin, his fingers pressing into her skin, she realized that perhaps she’d been _wrong_ in that assumption. _Worse,_ she saw now, was the fact that he seemed _amused,_ his eyes glittering in the candlelight.

“You believe me to be bluffing, don’t you?” He carefully selected a single grape from the tray, and Branwen’s eyes widened as the pressure on her cheeks became increasingly painful, forcing her jaw apart. “And at one time, you’d have been entirely correct - shoving my fingers into the mouth of some dirty prison wench is hardly ideal. But, I am no longer a _prince,_ or a _king,_ and I find myself _changed.”_

And then he _did_ shove the grape into her mouth, clamping his large hand over her mouth and nose before she could spit it out. “Swallow,” he said pleasantly, “or suffocate.”

As faint as she already was, the loss of air was particularly terrifying, and she quickly crushed the grape between her teeth and swallowed it down. He uncovered her mouth, though his bruising grip on her jaw remained firm.

The prince— _No,_ she sharply corrected herself. _He is no prince, not any longer. He is only Loki, the monster. He is no better than I am; in fact, he is something much, much worse._

_Loki_ looked pleased with himself. “Must we go through this entire ordeal for every scrap?” he asked her, giving her head a little shake. “I have all the time in the world.”

“No.”

“Wonderful.” He finally released her, wiping his hand on his thigh, as if touching her bare skin was abhorrent. Somehow, that made her hate him even more. “Eat, then, and eat every last bite. Stay out of my way. I will find you when I have need of you.”

He stood and made to leave, then, though he paused at the door, turning to give her a mocking half-bow. “Welcome to the rest of your life, Lady Branwen.”

Loki slammed the door closed behind him, and as soon as his footsteps had faded, Branwen sagged against the headboard and sobbed.

 


	2. In Blood

It had taken her some time to calm herself enough to eat, and though the meal Loki had so  _ kindly _ provided for her was far better than anything she’d had in the dungeon, it tasted like ash in her mouth.

She forced it down, nevertheless. Loki had spoken truly - she had chosen to be here, chosen to endure whatever punishment Thor Allfather deemed necessary to spare her life, and if she was  _ not _ going to die… she would greatly prefer to keep as much of her strength as possible.

There was cheese and a plate of shredded meat that she could not identify; she assumed that it must be some creature native to Asgard, one that she hadn’t had the opportunity to encounter during her time in the palace. Her time in the palace had been incredibly short-lived, after all. Her time  _ beneath _ it had seemed to last for an eternity.

Once she had forced herself to finish off every last bite, Branwen dragged herself from the bed, gagging as her dizziness surged. The candles he’d left flickering in her chamber provided poor lighting, but it was certainly better than nothing at all, and she leaned against the cool stone wall, waiting for her balance to settle as she surveyed the room.

The room was not  _ entirely _ round, she realized. The wall containing the door wasn’t curved, and she assumed that meant that something else must be located on this level of the tower. That much space would not be wasted on just the staircase, surely. But would it be foolish of her to set foot outside of her chamber?

Loki had only said that she was to stay out of his way, she reasoned, and that made it sound as if she was free to wander the castle, provided that she avoided him. Branwen had no intention of doing anything  _ but _ avoiding him.

It took her a few unsteady, swaying steps to reach the door, and she was terribly vexed by how weak he’d made her; she’d broken into a cold sweat in her struggle to open the heavy door.  _ Wretched creature,  _ she thought, giving herself over to anger in a vain attempt to muffle her fear.  _ He should not exist. _

There was a small landing leading to a narrow, spiralling staircase. Just the sight of the steps made Branwen’s head begin to spin all over again, and so she ignored it for the time being. A tumble down the stairs might not kill her, but it would surely spill her blood, and she had no doubt that  _ he _ would come running.

No, she would wait until her blood and her strength had renewed, and then she would search for some way out of this damnable place.

Another narrow door was located to one side of the stairwell, and she was relieved to find a washroom, small but surprisingly  _ modern. _ How many other areas of the castle had been modified to fit the Asgardian style? Loki had said that he was only able to summon items from within their prison, which meant that there must be a kitchen somewhere. Was it magically furnished, or did someone come to bring him supplies?

The king had made it seem as though no one knew about his brother’s cursed existence, and so Branwen sincerely doubted that he would allow any guards or servants to venture within Loki’s prison. Even if he  _ did _ allow it, given her own reception, she suspected that Loki would likely attack them as soon as he caught wind of them.

Ultimately, it meant that she was on her own.

She was too tired to dwell on it.

Instead, she attempted to freshen up. The mirror above the water basin looked particularly unpleasant with only candlelight to illuminate her, making her reflection seem pallid and gaunt. She swallowed back bile at the sight of the darkening dried blood on her skin and in her silver hair. 

He might’ve had the decency to clean her up, at least.

_ Monster. _

Branwen was quick to peel off her ruined gown, though she had nothing else to wear. As much as she dreaded the thought of putting it back on once she was clean, she found the thought of Loki catching her naked even  _ more _ appalling, so she supposed she’d have to make do. Perhaps she could fashion something out of her bedsheets, once she’d managed to gather her strength.

The water basin was wide and deep, and she assumed that it must replenish with magic, as she saw no pipes. There was a small covered grate on the sloped floor beneath her, and so she attempted to lift the basin to pour it over her head… but her shaking arms could not manage its weight, so she soon resorted to cupping handfuls of water to awkwardly splash on her skin.

She told herself that it would be best to avoid examining the aching spot where Loki had bitten her, but she could not resist her curiosity. Once she’d managed to rinse away some of the blood, she leaned closer to the mirror, probing her damaged skin with gentle fingers as she attempted to assess the damage.

There were two very distinct puncture-wounds, almost entirely healed over. The amount of bruising surrounding them was more worrisome, as Branwen did not bruise easily; she wondered how long he’d continued to suck the very life out of her, after she’d fallen faint.

_ Disgusting. _

A cloth would’ve proven useful, but she could not find one in the tiny washroom, so she continued to scrub her skin with her hands. It seemed like an exercise in futility, after a time; there was only so much she could do, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not entirely rinse out her hair. 

She stood and leaned against the counter for a long while, waiting for the air to dry her enough that she wouldn’t have to lie about in sodden clothes. Her eyes had a glassy look to them, and the overall effect was rather pitiful. Imagining Loki sneering at her, she grimaced.

Perhaps it would be wise to make herself as wretched-looking as possible. Perhaps attempting to freshen up would only make her more appealing to the monster. 

The chill became too much for her to bear eventually, and Branwen pulled her gown back on, forcing herself to ignore the stiff, stained fabric near her neckline. She was growing more and more weary by the moment, and by the time she made it back to the bed, she was on the verge of collapse. 

She should attempt to bar the door, or come up with a plan, or dig through her bag to see if Loki had stolen anything from it; she should do something to try to ensure her safety.

Instead, she promptly fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

Her body felt much improved when she woke, though her mood was every bit as bleak. The candles still burned in their sconces, but with no glimpse of the world outside, Branwen had no idea how long she’d been asleep. It had been night on Midgard when the king brought her to the castle, but how long had she slept after Loki fed on her, and how long had she slept since she bathed?

Was it daylight outside, now, or had another night come? For all she knew, it might’ve been even longer. The rumbling in her stomach made her suspicious that the latter may be true.

She crawled from the bed, wincing as her stiff muscles seemed to protest. It seemed to have grown even colder in her chamber as she slept, and she pulled a thin wool blanket from the layers of covers, wrapping it firmly about her shoulders. 

A cloak would have been preferable - a cloak, and suit of armor. 

Her hair was clumped and tangled, and she raked her fingers through it; for a moment, she considered making an attempt to tie it back, but that would only serve to put her neck on display for  _ him, _ and while she knew that a layer of hair and a thin blanket would do nothing to deter him, it made her feel a bit more secure.

The candle-holders, she was disappointed to discover, were fixed to the sconces themselves. Having no desire to wander about the castle in total darkness, Branwen squared her shoulders and seized hold of the thin strip of bronze, wrenching it free from the wall. 

Briefly, she entertained the notion of bashing Loki’s head in with her little makeshift-torch, but she quickly abandoned the idea; while she might fare better against him than a mortal, both the Æsir  _ and _ the Jötnar were known for their brute strength, and Loki was some impossibly horrid mix of the two, from what she’d heard.

That also did not account for his powers, which seemed to work perfectly well within the limitations of the castle… and beyond that, she had no idea if his resurrection as a blood-drinker had endowed him with other  _ ‘gifts.’ _

There had been those among the Dark Elves of Svartalfheim, long ago, who had supposedly sustained themselves with mortal blood and youth, but Branwen had never given such stories much thought. The Nine Realms had more than enough monsters to fear as it was; there was never a need to fret over malevolent creatures from many millennia ago. 

Of course, Loki was correct in saying that the Frost Giants were oft-cited as flesh-eaters, and she did not doubt it in the slightest. Perhaps that was the true reason that Death had returned him to the world of the living in such a state - a cruel mockery of his true nature.

Branwen knew little of the ‘true nature’ of Odin’s younger son, aside from the fact that he was,  _ in fact, _ Laufey of Jotunheim’s  _ eldest _ son. He was known to be a powerful mage, mad with ambition - Loki Silvertongue, who in his youth had been the Trickster Prince, then the God of Lies, and had been known to most of the Nine’s inhabitants, by the time of his final demise, as the God of Chaos.

The fact that he’d seemingly died on more than one occasion should give her hope that he could be killed, but in practice, it had the opposite effect; it only reminded her that he refused to s _ tay dead. _ Branwen decided that it would be much better for her to find a way to escape, rather than to waste time trying to kill him. 

Loki Laufeyson seemed to have attained an impressive hold on immortality, even for a god.

The winding staircase was an annoyance, but she made it to the bottom without any significant mishaps. She couldn’t begin to imagine why he’d placed her up there in the first place, considering the size of the castle. There was no need for her to have to navigate a treacherous staircase.

Like as not, he’d done it simply to vex her.

Had he any kindness left in him, the monster she knew as Loki might’ve left some candles or lanterns burning in the halls. He hadn’t, and so she spitefully paused to re-light a few as she made her way throughout the castle, hoping that it caused him some irritation, at the very least. It was foolish and petty, she knew - the sensible thing would be to keep her head down, hope that he forgot about her, hidden away in her tower.

_ If I was sensible, though, _ she reasoned,  _ I would not be in this mess in the first place. _

For it was true that she’d been a terrible,  _ terrible _ fool.

Despite their noble lineage (or perhaps because of it), Branwen’s family had not managed to hold any sway in Alfan politics for generations, a predicament that her eventual marriage was meant to rectify.

Her betrothed,  Matholwch , was a perfect candidate. He came from one of the High Houses of the Ljósálfar court, and while he was not in direct contention for the throne, his status was certain to guarantee him - and his eventual heirs - a  _ tremendous _ amount of influence in the court. 

Moreover, he was near to her in age, and extremely handsome.

They had been promised when they were both very small, and Branwen had always been quite taken with him, though they’d hardly spent more than a few moments alone together over the centuries. In their younger days, he’d seemed quite taken with  _ her, _ as well, and she’d dared to fall in love with him.

Love, she realized now, was a dangerous, deceitful thing.

The political climate on Alfheim had grown increasingly tense over the years, though she’d remained blissfully unaware for most of it; her parents had kept her hidden away in their domain, for the most part, learning to do all of the things that were purportedly necessary for young ladies with good marital prospects to know. It was  _ painful, _ now, to think of how optimistic she’d been.

_ How utterly stupid. _

When the Dark Elves reemerged and wreaked havoc during the much-awaited Convergence, something long-festering and volatile on Alfheim finally reached a breaking point; rioting had broken out, some dissatisfied with the Elf-King’s passivism, his total reliance on a weakened Odin Allfather for protection, and some protesting the unmentioned (but still present) rifts between those who had Svartálfar blood, those who clung to the  _ ‘old ways.’ _

As it turned out, her betrothed was a proponent of the  _ ‘old ways.’ _

In the chaos that reigned before the Allfather’s armies were able to make it to Alfheim to restore the Elf-King to his throne,  Matholwch and his  _ entire _ clan had declared themselves at-odds with the throne - and in fact, they had openly conspired against it.

They claimed that they wanted independence from the watchful-yet-neglectful eye of the  Æsir, that they should be allowed to use so-called ‘dark’ magic freely, that the Grey Elves should be celebrated, not swept aside in favor of those who were entirely  _ light and pure and weak. _

Her parents, of course, had thrown their lot in with the usurper. Branwen had to assume that they thought that he had a chance of emerging victorious. 

They’d been mistaken.

It took several years, but Asgard sent forces to Alfheim sooner than anyone might’ve expected, given the damage that the realm had sustained at the hands of Malekith and his kin and then the fire-demon Surtur, and with Asgard’s armies came  _ order.  _ It was a tense, brutal sort of order, but it was order, nonetheless, and those who so strongly opposed the Elf-King had faded into the shadows.

And then,  Matholwch had demanded her aid.

While he hid in the forests with his kin, scheming, she was to seek sanctuary on Asgard. His father - and she was still certain that it was his father who’d concocted the scheme - had explained that a little elf-maid would go largely unnoticed in the palace. After all, many nobles from around the Nine regularly sought favor and protection in the halls of the Allfather - why would she be any different?

Branwen had never considered herself suited for espionage, but she’d seen no alternative; he was her betrothed, after all. Her task was to be worthy of his love, wasn’t it? It was the only real purpose she’d ever had.

He’d given her poison to take if she were to be captured and at risk of betraying the cause, and then he’d sent her on her way. The truly painful thing had been realizing that, while she had no doubt that he fully intended to  _ wed _ her, if they proved successful, he did not  _ care _ about her. 

The realization had cracked her heart, but not her resolve. She’d accepted it all: the poison, the mission, the fate that came with it - she hadn’t  _ known _ that they intended to assassinate the Allfather, but would it have even mattered, if she had?

She’d accepted this punishment in that very moment, though she’d had no way of knowing it.

_ If he had loved me, _ she idly mused, trailing her fingers along the cool stone of yet another seemingly-endless hallway,  _ he would never have handed me the poison. If he’d loved me, he would’ve done anything to see me safely returned. _

She wondered if he was even still alive, or if the Allfather or the Elf-King had managed to capture and kill the conspirators. There had not been any other elves brought to the dungeons during her stay, to her knowledge. She wondered if everyone thought that she was dead.

Such morbid thoughts were well-suited for Loki’s castle, and with every step she took, Branwen felt the weight on her shoulders grow heavier and heavier. Whether or not they thought she was alive, she knew that no one would come for her.

Eventually, she found herself back in the throne room where she’d first met Loki, and she guessed that the kitchens were likely to be nearby, assuming that this was the great hall where the feasting would’ve taken place. She chose her path at random, and she was eventually rewarded with the flickering of firelight under a doorway at the far end of the hall.

There was a chance that the monster himself stood on the other side, but she was hungry and impatient and  _ desperate _ for something other than the never-ending darkness, and so she pulled open the heavy wooden door. Loki was nowhere to be seen, and she heaved a sigh of relief.

A massive fire roared in the hearth at the far end of the kitchen; she assumed that it must be magically-sustained, as well, for she could not imagine Loki Laufeyson stooping to haul kindling. While the warmth and the light were welcoming, the room had an eerie air about it, almost as if all of the servants it  _ should’ve _ held had simply vanished into thin air. Pots and pans sat gleaming and polished on the countertops, but there was no food in sight.

Scowling, Branwen tiptoed across the chamber, praying that the door on the far side led to the larder. There  _ had _ to be some stores of food, surely.  _ But why would there be?  _ the voice inside her head whispered.  _ Does he feed on anything other than blood? Can he consume food at all, with what he’s become?  _

Her venture into the larder did prove fruitful, however, and she supposed that the king had known that  _ she _ would need to eat, even if his brother could not. She retrieved a few smoked sausages and a jar of some sort of pickles, then settled into the corner to feast. After she’d eaten it all - and gone searching for a small loaf of bread, as well - Branwen dusted off her hands and set to work.

One of the kitchen cabinets held a stack of pristine white towels, and she stole a few. There was a very good chance that Loki would never notice or care about something so small, but she did not want to take any risks. She next tucked a small paper packet of candied ginger into the pocket of her gown, and after a moment of thought, she shoved a small wooden cup into her pocket, as well.

A block of knives on one of the countertops caught her attention as she made to leave the kitchen. Branwen hesitated, her fingertips brushing over the handles. Did she dare? Would it offer her any protection at all? Pulling one of the knives free, she was disappointed by just how  _ flimsy _ it looked. 

“Are you imagining how satisfying it would be to drive that through my heart?”

The knife clattered to the floor as she spun, backing away from the open doorway where Loki stood looming. “How fitting,” he continued, “that I’d find you in the kitchen, of all places.”

Branwen wished that she hadn’t dropped the knife. She tried to retreat further as he stalked towards her, but the small of her back hit one of the countertops, and she grimaced. He had her cornered.

Loki gracefully stooped and swept the knife from the floor as he followed her. He flipped it, holding the point to his heart. “Allow me to demonstrate the futility of such an act, elf.”

Then he plunged the blade into his breast - or he  _ would _ have, had the metal not crumpled like paper upon impact. She shrieked in surprise; even an  Æsir should at least have a  _ scratch _ from such a ruthless blow… but he was completely unfazed. He dropped the ruined knife on the floor, then ran his fingers over the other handles, just as she’d done only moments before.

“Would you like for me to try another?”

Her voice shook. “No.”

“Nothing in here will do the trick, I’m afraid - and I’ve certainly tried.” There was an odd look in his eyes, then, though he wasn’t looking at her face. She realized that he was staring at the bloodstain on her gown, and her fear spiked sharply. The look, she realized, was _ hunger. _

_ Not again, _ she thought, despairing.  _ Not so soon. _

Loki leaned against the counter, his arms folded. “I cannot imagine that you’d have the nerve to murder me,” he said. “A little elf-maid, and a frail one, at that. Though, if you’re truly a criminal of any significance, perhaps you’ve acquired a taste for such things. Is that so?”

“No,” Branwen snapped, strangely offended. “I have  _ never _ taken a life.”

“You must’ve done something equally heinous, for this to be your sentence.”

“Nothing as heinous as  _ you, _ sire, for you to have earned  _ your _ sentence.”

It was a mistake - she realized it the moment she’d said it, but it was too late to take it back. Loki’s eyes burned scarlet with rage, and as he lurched forward to seize her, Branwen squeaked in fear and ducked past him, running as fast as her feet would carry her.

Elves were known for their speed and grace, and had she been fleeing from another man - mortal or immortal - she might’ve had a slight advantage, for she’d always been light on her feet. Unfortunately, Loki Laufeyson was not a normal man. After only the briefest of pauses, she heard his light footsteps as he raced after her, hot on her heels.

Loki was unfairly suited for the hunt; not only was he familiar with the layout of the castle, but his vision was sharper in the near-total darkness, and since her candle had been abandoned back in the kitchen, Branwen had to resort to running with her arms stretched before her, hoping that she did not suddenly crash into a wall.

She did not make it very far before he caught up with her.

He grabbed the loose fabric at the back of her gown, yanking at her with such force that she heard some of the seams rip. Branwen had been hauled about by men before, and the soldiers of Asgard had never been particularly  _ gentle, _ but she’d never been so violently  _ manhandled.  _ When he slammed her against the wall, her head cracked against the stone with such force, she could’ve sworn she saw stars. 

“You have a sharp tongue,  _ wench.” _ Though he was breathing heavily, it did not seem to be from exertion. Her skin crawled. “I find it  _ fascinating _ that you’d choose to remind me of my sins, rather than my virtues.”

He was going to feed on her; that was simply a fact, she could tell by the darkening of his eyes, and there would be no stopping it. Somehow, this gave her the bravado to sneer up at him. “You  _ have _ no virtue, Loki Laufeyson.”

Pausing for a moment, he leaned back to study her, his expression cold. “True enough,” he replied, and then he forced her wrists together. The manacles fused, and Branwen cried out in disbelief and frustration; it simply was not  _ fair. _

Loki pulled her close, an uncomfortably-familiar sort of embrace, pressing his nose against the sensitive skin behind her ear. His sigh ruffled her hair. “I will have to be careful,” he said. “I want you to stay awake for this.”

Branwen closed her eyes, shuddering as he placed a surprisingly-gentle kiss against the bruise he’d already given her. His tongue slid over her skin, next; she jolted, unprepared for the perverse stirring of anticipation it provoked. She wasn’t entirely sure if it was an appropriate response, or some sort of sorcery, having had no experience with either, but she found both possibilities abhorrent.

He ripped the neck of her gown to widen the area of skin available for his perusal, his mouth eventually coming to rest on a spot midway between her neck and shoulder. Whether his aim was to spare her the pain of reopening the old wound or to mark her in as many places as possible, she neither knew nor cared. The end result was the same, either way.

Her teeth sank into her lip to muffle her moan as Loki’s teeth sank into her skin, and this time, the burning in her veins was instant, stronger than the pain itself. Her veins burned… and the rest of her felt  _ impossibly _ cold, cold as his skin, cold as ice. She managed to reach his face, but with her wrists bound together, Branwen could not push him away. Instead, she ended up awkwardly cradling his face in her hands, and as he crushed against her, pinning her arms between their chests, she found that she could not move them.

It was  _ cruel _ \- a mockery of embraces she’d never had the opportunity to experience. She dug her nails into Loki’s skin, hoping that it would prove uncomfortable for him, at the very least. He paid her no mind. 

_ “Please,” _ she whispered, and Loki grunted. Branwen was terrified; her head began to feel too heavy, her legs weak.  _ It is too soon, _ she told him in her mind.  _ Too soon, and you’ve taken too much already. _ All that she managed to voice was a disgruntled whine.

She writhed - or she made a valiant attempt, at least, but the world began to spin. In the all-consuming darkness of the hall, the sensation made her feel as if she were drowning, somewhere deep, far beyond the reach of the sun. 

Perhaps he tired of stooping down to reach her neck, or perhaps her feeble struggling excited him, for Loki suddenly seized hold of her thigh, hoisting her higher against the wall and pinning her with his hips. The pressure between her thighs was horribly contradictory, anchoring her in place even as the rest of her body seemed to fade and float away.

No matter how numb she’d become, she was still able to feel  _ exactly _ the moment that he finished feeding on her and began to run his tongue over the mess he’d made of her skin; her nerves burned, and the fire seemed to pool low in her belly. Branwen’s eyes fluttered as he sucked and kissed her skin. It was a much needed balm, a relief from the pain… even though it came from  _ him, _ she sank into the feeling easily, her head falling back against the stone.

Loki’s lips were against her ear, then, and had she been a bit more  _ aware, _ Branwen might’ve shuddered at the sticky-wetness of his mouth, or at the way he rocked slightly against her. He was  _ panting, _ she realized. Excited.  _ Feral. _

She realized that  _ she _ was, as well.

That was…  _ wrong, _ was it not? Branwen attempted to open her eyes, but she found it impossible. It was  _ all _ wrong. 

_ All wrong all wrong all wrong— _

_ “Delicious.”  _ His bit lightly on her earlobe, and then she  _ did _ shiver, though she was not entirely certain  _ why _ \- it was certainly less painful than much of what he’d done to her thus far. As he pulled away, Branwen managed to crack open her eyes at last; though her vision was limited to a thin strip, it was enough to see the blood smeared across Loki’s mouth and chin.  _ Her _ blood.

“But  _ disgusting,” _ he continued. “You’ll have to bathe.”

He slid his arm around her waist and half-dragged her down a corridor she’d yet to explore - or if she had, she could not remember it. There was a large marble bathtub in the chamber at the end of it, an oddity, considering the rest of her surroundings. She wondered idly if he’d somehow created it with his magics. The room was surprisingly warm, steam rising from the water, and the thickness of the air suddenly overwhelmed her.

Loki let her go, and Branwen staggered. “Will I have to undress you?” he asked, irritation coloring his tone. “Can you manage such a  _ simple _ task?”

Despite her desire to rail and curse at him, she decided it best to get rid of him as quickly as possible. If she did snap, it would only make things worse. “I can manage it.”

“Good.” His nose wrinkled as he turned back to the door. “And wash your gown, as well.”

 

* * *

 

Being  _ clean _ was a blessing, and Loki knew it; soon, it became a part of their routine. He seemed to enjoy surprising her when he wished to  _ use _ her, and so he would typically wait until she was wandering the halls to strike, or he would wake her from her sleep, his mouth already on her neck as he cradled her in his lap. Branwen would struggle, sometimes; when she was too weak or too afraid or too  _ empty,  _ she’d simply fall against him and let him take what he wanted.

She feared the sting of his bite and the drain on her body and spirit, but the warm flush that came when he lapped at the marks with his tongue always brought relief.  _ That _ was the moment that she began to loathe and crave in equal measure - the moment when he kissed the pain away, when he chased the cold and the emptiness.

The bath was her reward, on the days that he was pleased with her. He would lead her there (or carry her, depending on how rough he’d been), usually depositing her there with some cruel comment about the way she smelled, or the tangled state of her hair, or her general  _ weakness. _

The gown she’d arrived in had fallen to bloodstained tatters quickly, for he was never gentle. After she’d cut holes in one of her bedsheets to make herself a crude sort of shift, he’d finally seen fit to give her another gown. It was nearly identical in every way to the one she’d arrived in, but it was black; she supposed it was meant to hide the blood, and she couldn’t bring herself to be grateful.

He seemed to avoid accosting her in her tower chamber more and more as time passed, and though she couldn’t imagine  _ why, _ it gave Branwen the smallest measure of comfort. There were a few old, battered books in the satchel that the Allfather had allowed her to keep when she’d joined Loki in his prison, and these quickly became invaluable, not for what she could  _ read, _ but for what she could  _ record. _

Days and nights had no measure in the dark of Loki’s castle, and as time passed, she became more and more disoriented, more  _ lost. _ She’d begun to keep a tally in the back of one of her books, marking off every time she woke; it might not be an accurate record of time, but it was the best that she could manage, and it helped.

It did not help  _ enough, _ but it helped.

Weeks passed, or so she thought. Fortunately, Loki seemed to desire her and to be disgusted by her presence in equal measure, and when he was not hungry, she was typically able to give him wide berth. Wherever he kept himself in the palace, he must’ve hidden it away with his magic, for despite all of her explorations, she could not find it. Aside from the kitchen, the rest of the castle seemed unsettlingly barren.

She  _ did _ eventually find the remnants of a dungeon, or some sort of basement; it still contained bits of rubble, and she spent hours groping around in the darkness, hoping for a miracle. And then… and then she  _ found _ something.

It had burned her as soon as her fingers brushed against it.  _ Iron. _ Cold iron was nearly impossible for an elf to hold for any length of time, but the spike she’d found seemed sturdy, and it was thick enough that she dared to hope that it would withstand the stress of chiselling away at the mortar of the castle walls. Branwen ripped the fabric from the bottom of her skirt and wrapped it around the handle, then carefully smuggled it to her tower.

The location she chose to make her bid for freedom needed to be hidden, but convenient. She chose a spot beneath the tower staircase; she was nearly certain that the wall there was above ground, given the boarded-up windows, and it was not difficult for her to creep downstairs to work on her little  _ project _ whenever Loki was away.

Predicting his movements became her only focus in life - predicting him, and chipping away at the walls of her prison. He seemed to immediately leave  _ her _ area of the castle as soon as he’d gorged himself on her blood, she realized, and so Branwen determined that the best time to devote to her escape was immediately after he’d fed. If he left her in the bath, she would quickly wash, then fumble her way back to her tower and go to work at once, despite how faint she usually was after he’d finished with her.

The longer she waited, the higher the odds were that he’d make an unwanted reappearance.

Her resolve to endure was stronger, having been bestowed with a sense of purpose, and for a time, she might’ve even said that her spirits were lifted. She’d slept and awoken over twenty times, by her reckoning, before things began to slowly change.

Loki seemed to grow increasingly frustrated and increasingly  _ calculated;  _ when his lips inspired  _ desire _ \- for she could no longer deny that it was desire that she felt, as much as she despised him - he would respond in kind, as if acting on instinct alone. As soon as he realized it, he always seemed to have to tear himself away, usually taunting her with some sharp barb or another as he did.

He would slide his hands down her waist, would dig them into her thighs, taunting,  _ teasing _ — testing for some  _ weakness, _ it seemed, though Branwen couldn’t begin to imagine what it was that the creature hoped to find. His growing fascination, she knew, was a thing to be feared.

She did not enjoy being toyed with, particularly not by the likes of  _ him. _

 

* * *

 

_ “Listen  _ to yourself, wench.”

Loki had come to her in her tower for the first time in many days, disturbing her sleep. His long frame caged her, pinned her to the bed, and he hadn’t even bothered with waking her before he bit her; Branwen awoke to blistering  _ pain. _ In her panic and disorientation, she’d wrapped her arms around him, scrabbling against his skin.

_ Skin.  _ He was not wearing his armor, or even a tunic.  _ Why? _

He had been cruel, even more so than usual, prying her arms away and pinning them to the bed, gripping so tightly that she was certain that she’d bruise. Now he lay atop her, eyes filled with fury, his mouth stained crimson.  _ “Moaning,” _ he sneered; as his lip curled, she spied his fangs, and her fear spiked. “You might as well be  _ begging—” _

But he cut himself off abruptly before he had the chance to finish the thought, releasing one of her arms just long enough to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. It did not do any good, nor did it make him look any less fearsome.

Mortified, Branwen attempted to press her thighs together to relieve some of the aching… but she  _ couldn’t, _ because the wretched creature was firmly settled between them. How  _ dare _ he suggest that she held  _ any _ of the blame for this? How  _ dare _ he suggest that she was attempting to entice him? It was  _ his _ dark magic at work, she was certain of it.

“I abstained for weeks,” Loki continued,  _ “weeks,  _ before you were left here to feed me, even  _ months. _ And now… now, I cannot last more than a few days, at most.  _ You _ have done this to me.  _ You _ have made me this  _ thing.” _

“Had you truly not fed on anyone, before me?”

His eyes narrowed, as if he was offended by the sheer audacity of questioning him. “When I first woke,” he replied. “I have only vague memories of it, but it took the king some time to find me. Imagine his  _ horror.”  _ Loki shoved himself from her, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “More of his  _ precious _ mortals, dead by my hand.”

“But I—”

_ “Quiet,” _ he snapped. “You are a meal, and nothing more. I have no desire to  _ speak _ with you.”

Then he left her there, lost and alone and confused.

She did not mark the tally in her book. Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to dream of sunlight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 of HalloWeek!


	3. In Iron

Branwen came to realize that, even as she attempted to figure out exactly what sort of monster now inhabited the late prince’s form, he was doing the same. There were times when she detected the _slightest_ bit of regret, of compassion, though he never voiced it. Those were the days when he was less brutal - instead of accosting her from the shadows, or waking her in the night, he would find her in the kitchen or wait for her at the end of a dark hallway, beckoning her forward.

Making it seem as though she had a _choice,_ or at least a semblance of agency.

She decided that she hated him for that, more than anything else.

His moods grew more erratic; he would attempt to entice her one moment, swayed by either the draw of her blood or her body, and the next moment would find him hurling insults. Loki maintained, though it all, the assertion that he did not want to _know_ her, or to know anything _about_ her. Despite this, she found him lingering more and more, and her nerves were in tatters.

It became difficult to work on her project below the stairs, for fear of him finding her there, and her count of the ‘days’ began to mean less; from her near-constant state of exhaustion, she could only assume that she was waking more frequently, which really made the whole endeavor seem pointless.

Still, she needed _something,_ and so she continued to add to the tallies, despairing as they began to accumulate. The little lines taunted her, as if to say, _“No one is coming for you, Branwen. No one cares. This is your life, now.”_

 

* * *

 

The encounter began like many others. She had taken one of her books down to the kitchen to read; it had quickly become her favorite place in the castle, despite the fact that _he_ often came for her there, simply because it was always so brightly-lit. The book was a genealogy of the court of Alfheim, and while it wasn’t particularly _interesting,_ at least it reminded her of the time before she’d been a prisoner.

Loki had been more restrained than the last few times he’d come for her, though she could feel the eagerness radiating from him in waves. Branwen had come to realize that he took a perverse sort of enjoyment in seeing her bathed in light; she could only assume it was because it provided him with the opportunity to drag her away into the shadows.

He had stayed away for several days, if her sleep-cycles were any true measure of time, and that had her terribly on-edge; it always seemed that the more he tried to avoid her, the crueler he was when he finally came to her again. When she first spied his shadow lingering in the doorway, Branwen’s first instinct was to crawl under one of the counters to hide.

She was being foolish, _childish._

Instead she stood, brushing crumbs from her skirts. “I know that you are there, Loki.”

“Then come to me,” he said. Hand extended, he stepped into the light, though the shadows seemed to cling to him. “It is time.”

Why refuse? Loki would just come after her, if she did. She knew that, now.

Branwen slowly stepped forward and took his hand. He told her that he would be gentle. She did not understand why he bothered - it was a lie.

 

* * *

 

“Clean up,” he told her when he was done, but as soon as he let go of her, Branwen crumpled against the wall. The stone was cool, and she turned to press her cheek to it, seeking relief from the waves of dizziness.

 _Go away,_ she told him in her mind. _Go away, and leave me here._

Loki grunted in annoyance, then hauled her back to her feet. “You cannot walk?”

“I can.”

“Then _go.”_

Why was he making her _do_ this? What was the point of it? Branwen took one step, and then another, her face screwed up in a determined frown. _Breathe,_ she told herself. _In. Out. In. Out._ It was difficult to ignore him, but she made a valiant effort, leaning against the wall as she slowly progressed down the hallway.

“How pitiful,” he commented after a moment or two, hovering over her shoulder. “I did not realize that elves broke so easily. And you, a fearsome criminal… such a _disappointment.”_

 _“Stop,”_ Branwen protested as he swept her into his arms, but Loki ignored her, as he always did. He carried her to the bath, but when he deposited her there and went to leave, as he always did, he hesitated.

The pounding of her heart rang in her ears.

Pulling the door closed, he turned back to her, a strange look in his eyes. “Go on,” he said. “Get in.”

“But—”

He took a sudden step towards her, and Branwen stumbled back, bumping against the side of the bathtub. _Very well,_ she thought, _have it your way._ Gown still _very_ much in place, she awkwardly fumbled over the edge and into the water, slightly satisfied at her own defiance.

At first, Loki looked angry, but then he laughed. “Playing elf-games now, are we? I shall endeavour to be more _specific_ in my requests. Remove your gown.” He began to peel off his own clothing, and Branwen averted her eyes.

She told herself that it was best to comply; perhaps after spending so much time with her, he would leave her alone for a while, and she would be able to work on her escape in peace. The rough fabric of her gown proved an impressive impediment, however, clinging hot and heavy to her skin. The effort even to raise her arms was exhausting.

“I cannot,” she finally admitted. “I do not have the energy.”

The water rippled as he climbed in behind her; Branwen tried to scoot away from him, but Loki caught her by the hips, pulling her back into his lap. “Such _trouble,”_ he said, dragging her skirts up her thighs. “And you cannot lift your arms?”

“No.”

He pressed a hand to her back, leaning her forward, and before she had a chance to question him, he’d ripped her gown open from the neck to the waist, quickly peeling her sleeves from her arms. A few moments more, and he managed to wrest the remnants of her gown entirely from her, dropping it onto the floor beside the tub in a sodden heap.

Branwen was frozen; she had never naked in the presence of a man before, and even with the many liberties that he’d taken with her, she never would have expected anything like _this._ Was it the sign of a guilty conscience, some eleventh-hour attempt to show a measure of care?

 _No,_ she told herself as he began to rub water against her neck, washing away the blood, _it is only lust._

Lust was a precarious thing, pervasive and corrupting. It was to lust that she attributed her occasional dreams of being held in his embrace, and to her newfound inability to picture the face of her betrothed when she _did_ occasionally feel stirrings of something like passion late in the night.

There was only Loki, now.

Academically, she knew how _it_ was supposed to work. She knew that the hardness pressed against her backside meant that he desired her, despite the fact that he had professed _nothing_ but disdain for her in the entire time that they had been imprisoned together. The heat and tension pooling inside of her, likewise, was nothing more than a response to the unfamiliar sensation of having a man hold her this way.

It was simply mechanical, clinical.

She tried to detach herself from it all, to float away in the heat and the steam, but his wandering hands made it impossible. “Why are you doing this?”

Loki had given up the pretense of bathing her, one hand left wrapped around her throat, the other sneaking around to her belly. His blunt nails lightly scraped her skin, and Branwen fought the urge to squirm. “The sounds you make,” he murmured, “the way you _writhe_ in my grasp… I have been plagued with thoughts of humoring you.”

 _“Humoring_ me?”

His fingers slipped between her thighs, then, and she gasped, clutching his wrist. Moving him proved impossible; she slumped against him, defeated, and the ghost of a laugh brushed past her ear. _“Humoring_ you, elf. Satisfying these _strange_ desires.”

“What does that—” Her voice hitched as he found a rhythm for his stroking, made worse as his grip tightened on her throat. “What does that _mean?”_

“In my previous lives,” he said, “I never encountered this _urge_ to cause pain. But _you,_ Branwen… you make pain something _captivating._ Why is that?”

Loki was frustrated, it seemed, but even if he _had_ wanted a response, Branwen sincerely doubted that she would’ve been able to provide one; she was too sensitive, and his fingers were too insistent, and the heat in the small room compounded with her blood loss to make her feel fuzzy and light-headed, floating through space.

He hissed in her ear as her back arched, pressing her more firmly against him. It should’ve been a warning, but she was too distracted to realize it, and the sting of his teeth sinking into her skin came as a shock. She cried out, and Loki chose that moment to press his fingers inside of her. The pain was a dull, far-away thing, quickly consumed by the burning in her veins, stronger than it had ever been, stronger than her horror at finding herself so utterly compromised.

Everything seemed to close in on her at once - the feel of his touch, the loss of blood, the heat, the blackness crowding around her vision… had she stopped breathing of her own accord, or had he lost himself in his excitement, choking the life out of her? Branwen clutched his arm in a desperate attempt to hold onto something solid, something _real._

Her climax was sudden and unexpected, and she thought that she might’ve heard Loki’s serpent-tongue whispering in her ear, but the blackness closed in around her before she could be certain.

 

* * *

 

Branwen woke in an unfamiliar chamber.

It was just as poorly-lit as her own, but it had much better furnishings, and there _was_ a fireplace, though it was unlit. She was on her side, she realized, and she found that she could not move. There was a strong, cloying scent in the air, and it made her head pound. “Loki?” she croaked.

No response.

Her hand lay in front of her face, and Branwen twitched her fingers, relieved to find that she could do _that,_ at the very least. _Sleeves,_ she noted. Long, green sleeves covered her arms, which meant that she was wearing something, and that was cause for more relief.

She heard the door open, and though she knew it _must_ be him, her skin crawled as she imagined that she’d somehow been discovered by something even worse. “Loki?”

“Who else would it be, elf? Do you imagine that I’ve added another victim to my collection?”

“No.”

“I suppose that might be interesting.” Loki stepped into her field of vision, wearing a simple tunic and trousers. It was disturbingly _intimate._ Branwen decided that she preferred him with his armor.

“I could have a woman from every realm,” he continued, crouching by the bedside. “Well, perhaps not _every_ realm. A little Vana for the days I crave a spark of magic, and a goddess of Asgard for the days I am feeling particularly _homesick._ A _mortal,_ even, though I doubt I could make one last for very long. Not in this state.”

He ran his tongue along his teeth - his fangs were _worryingly_ elongated. He couldn’t possibly be hungry again, could he, and so _soon?_

“Cad.”

Loki grinned. It did not reach his eyes. “I would think that you would be appreciative of such an arrangement. It would certainly lessen the burden on your own body.”

Scowling, Branwen tried to roll away from him, but failed miserably. “There is no one that I hate so dearly that I would wish this fate upon them.”

“Bold words for a woman who cannot even _move.”_ He prodded her shoulder, rolling her onto her back. “Are you trying to provoke me, little deviant?”

_Breathe, Branwen. In. Out. In. Out._

“Where am I?”

“My chamber, obviously. Before you ask, you are also in my housecoat.”

“Why?”

Loki moved to the bed, leaning over her. His gaze was calculating, and she wished that she could push him away. “The monster wants to keep you close,” he replied. “And so, here you are.”

That was the _last_ thing that she wanted to hear. “It is cold,” she said, “and the smell…”

He traced his fingers along her collarbone. “Hmm. I thought that you’d overheated; you tasted like _fire_ when you came apart, you know.” Mortified, she managed to raise her arm in an attempt to push his hand away, but Loki ignored her feeble efforts.

When he spoke next, his voice was teasing. “As for the smell, it is an incense. I’ve been _trying_ to drown out the scent of you for weeks, but it seems rather pointless, now. You’ve managed to taint my last sanctuary.”

Her mouth was so, _so_ very dry, and she tried to lick her lips. It did no good.

It was always his _eyes,_ she realized. No matter what he said, no matter what he _did…_ the hunger was always there, never satisfied, always craving more, promising pain. Branwen felt oddly brave; perhaps she simply had yet to recover enough of her wits to fear him as she should.

“Take me back to my tower,” she said. _“Monster.”_

The false-friendliness slid from his face, another mask discarded. He wrapped his hand around her neck, squeezing lightly. “I want to kill you,” Loki said, his lip curling as he brought his face closer to hers. “Do you realize that, elf? Do you realize how _tempting_ it is? How difficult it is for me to _stop,_ every single time?”

“Kill me, then.”

She flinched as he bared his teeth, but he pulled back abruptly. “You are _mad,”_ he declared. “Delirious. I will overlook your impudence, this once.” The fire in the hearth sprang to life as he stood and stormed towards the door. “Be grateful.”

But Branwen could not bring herself to _be_ much of anything. She felt only apathy, resignation, and as soon as the door slammed closed behind him, she allowed herself to cry.

 

* * *

 

The routine changed, after that day.

As much as he might’ve railed and ranted, Loki craved her too fiercely to leave her be; his clinginess and his constant quicksilver moods were exhausting, and Branwen feared that he would eventually consume her entirely. It was difficult, sometimes, to remember the world _outside_ of the castle, the world outside of Loki. From her reckoning, only a few months had passed, but it felt like an eternity, darkness stretching out in every direction. _Endless._

They’d both become creatures beyond time.

Loki chose to feed on her in the bath more often than not. He claimed that it was due to the ease of cleanup, but Branwen did not believe him; he’d never seemed to care about the _mess_ before. She assumed that he must enjoy her vulnerability.

She _knew_ that he enjoyed touching her. He’d told her as much, claimed that it _somehow_ made her blood taste more appealing. The way that she reacted to him and his own attraction to her both seemed to be subject to Loki’s all-consuming fascination - and his hatred. His temper would flare if she did not respond to him, or on other occasions, it would be the fact that she _did_ respond to his touch that seemed to earn his ire.

Branwen despised him, but she endured with as much grace as she was able.

He would climb into the bath behind her, always, and no matter how miserable he made her, she supposed that she should be thankful for that small measure of privacy, at least. Though his hands wandered, he’d never done more than touch; she suspected that he would consider it a failure on his part, a surrender to the _monster._

The gown he’d torn was the only _real_ clothing she had, and she managed to lace the back of it up with string. It was, on some level, merely an act of subtle defiance - she knew that Loki would be perfectly happy if she lived in his housecoats day-in and day-out. It made things _easier,_ he said. That alone was enough reason for Branwen to refuse them as often as she could.

Eventually, he grew tired of her games and threw the gown into the fire.

The fire was one of the only benefits of Loki’s ever-increasing attachment to her; when he kept her in his chamber, she had the opportunity to experience warmth, and his bed was always clean and crisp. No bloodstains for _his_ sheets, though hers were not so fortunate.

Branwen learned, after being in such close proximity to him, that Loki did not sleep. It did not seem to be that he _couldn’t,_ but that he simply did not _need_ to. Sometimes he seemed to doze off in his bed after he’d taken too much blood from her, a side-effect of his gluttony. She was always afraid to test the depth of his slumber, for fear that he would begin to suspect that she was hiding something, and so she would lay beside him, waiting for him to leave so that she could flee to her tower.

And she _was_ hiding something.

Every time she had the opportunity to evade him for a few hours, she slipped away to chip at the mortar below the tower stairs. No help was coming for her, she reminded herself time and time again. If she wanted freedom… she had to save herself.

 

* * *

 

One day, he came to her with the proposition of an experiment; Branwen found the idea that he’d pretend she was a willing subject ludicrous, but Loki had promised her a new gown if she didn’t cause a fuss, and she was desperate once again to wear something that had not been _tainted._

“I have been pondering our little _problem,”_ he said. “Why do our sessions seem to provoke such an _interesting_ response in you? There must be a reason, surely.”

 _Your magic, I presume,_ Branwen though snidely, for she had no doubt that Loki purposefully stirred these _urges_ in her just to add to her humiliation. Still, she loosened the ties of her housecoat and bared her skin to the shoulders; it was worth playing his games, if it got her something that she wanted.

He ran his hands down her neck, smoothing over her shoulders and brushing her long hair aside. “I am not feeling particularly _hungry,_ at the moment. This should be easy enough.” The excitement in his eyes suggested otherwise, but Branwen didn’t bother with correcting him - let him lie to himself, if he wished.

Let him tell himself that he had _control,_ that some part of him hadn’t been entirely consumed by the monster. She knew better.

“The left side, to begin,” Loki said after a few moments of consideration, and she fixed her eyes on the candle burning on the wall behind them as he sank his teeth into the skin at the base of her neck. She gasped - she did not imagine that she would ever be able to mask her pain completely, though she liked to imagine that she would, with time.

Loki withdrew quickly, licking his lips. Branwen did not _understand._ The sensation of trickling blood curling down her collarbone and breast was a distraction, and she chose to focus on that. She clenched her teeth against the hurt and watched his face as he followed the path of her blood; he was clearly enraptured.

 _He is going to forget this experiment of his,_ she thought, her stomach lurching. _If there ever even was an experiment, in the first place. Wretched thing._

But it appeared that she had underestimated him. He seemed to catch ahold of his senses, and as he met her gaze, his smile was crafty. “And now for the right.”

Gone was his earlier grace; he lurched forward like a man possessed - which she supposed he was. When his teeth sank into her flesh, he latched on and began to feed in earnest. Branwen silently cursed him. _Bloodsucker. Demon from Hel. Monster._ The fabric of her housecoat slipped as he drew her closer to him, and she fumbled to keep it closed.

Then his attentions took their usual turn, and instead of merely sucking the life out of her, he began to lick and kiss her skin. The fact that she’d been expecting it did nothing to prevent the damnable stirrings the sensation produced, and Branwen’s head rolled back in silent surrender as the warmth spread.

She _craved_ the warmth, _ached_ for it, and she hated him in equal measure.

Loki stopped before she’d begun to feel more than the first vestiges of dizziness, pulling a handkerchief from one of his pockets and carefully wiping his mouth. It was not entirely effective, and now that he had let her go, Branwen was acutely aware of the sharp pain on the left side of her neck, of the blood still flowing.

Dropping the first cloth on the ground, he pulled out another, which he used to wipe away the mess he’d made on her neck. “There,” he said, satisfied. “The wound left unattended still bleeds, while the other already begins to heal. It must be something in my kiss… something to make this whole experience a bit more _pleasing.”_

Ignoring the discomfort, Branwen twisted her head, determined to remain aloof. Her eyes watered; it was the first time that he’d bitten her and simply left the wound _alone,_ and she had never realized how much _worse_ it might feel.

He laughed softly, tugging on the belt of her housecoat until the knot came undone, brushing his hands along her waist. “And you _do_ find it pleasing, _don’t_ you?”

She did not respond. It was difficult enough to ignore his cool fingers digging in her skin, tightening for a moment here, there, almost as if testing and exploring her softness. Loki sighed and leaned down to lick her collarbone, and she was a bit horrified to realize that the feeling that flooded her when he failed to do anything else was _disappointment._

“I begin to suspect that this is a sort of natural game of _kiss-or-kill,”_ he said, his voice low and conspiratorial, “depending on whether the creature wishes to entirely drain its victims, or to save them for later _use._ Will you be able to heal it with your own magics, elf? Should I leave you to find out?”

Though she hated herself for it, Branwen began to panic. She could endure the shame, and she could endure the soreness and the fatigue, but this sharp, icy _pain…_ that, she feared. “No.”

His eyes glowed, burning with anticipation - and no small measure of surprise. Perhaps he’d thought her stronger than she truly was. Perhaps she should’ve resisted longer, should’ve risked bleeding out on the floor. _Perhaps perhaps perhaps…_

“Beg me,” Loki breathed, the metal of his belt buckle cold against her bared belly. “Beg me to make it all _better.”_

Her throat constricted. Had she no pride left? Could he not allow her the smallest _shred_ of dignity? “No,” she replied, flinching slightly as he pushed the housecoat down her arms, letting it fall and pool at her feet. The way he’d _touched_ her in the bath… at least she had been somewhat hidden from him, then.

Now, she was bare. Exposed. _Even more vulnerable,_ her mind whispered, though she knew it wasn’t true; she was always vulnerable, when it came to Loki and his _appetites._

“No? But I’ve hurt you so _badly,_ darling. I’ve caused you so much _pain,_ and I can ease it, soothe your hurt. Would that not be best? All you have to do is _ask.”_

 _Liar._ His words were sweet, but his eyes revealed him, filled with hunger and a sort of malicious delight that seemed to be uniquely _Loki._ But the pain grew stronger by the minute, and her vision began to spot and fade. It wasn’t healing; had he been correct - was there some magic in his bite? Some poison?

Was he even _capable_ of leaving her in this state, of allowing her to bleed out on the floor? He’d consider it a waste, surely.

Was it worth the risk?

“Make it… make it better,” Branwen said at last, blinking slowly as the candlelight behind him seemed to blur into an odd sort of halo. A tear ran down her cheek, and she cursed herself for that, too. _“Please,_ make it better.”

“Of course,” he crooned, “of course.”

He nudged her backwards until the backs of her legs collided with the bedframe. “The blood?” she asked, her head spinning. Loki _never_ allowed her blood to taint his bed, and he would be angry, wouldn’t he? She did not want to risk angering him, not when she needed him to _help_ her…

“No escaping it.” _What did that mean?_ Branwen frowned as he laid her back on the bed, blinking away the stars that exploded at the sudden shift in position. “We are meant to burn together, you and I.”

Being laid prone on the bed seemed to clear her head somewhat, and as Loki tore off his tunic, Branwen realized, with a sudden and shocking sense of clarity, what it was that he intended. She was naked. He was very _nearly_ naked. “You… wait,” she protested. _“Please.”_

“No.” Loki seemed to decide that his trousers could wait, tumbling onto the bed, crowding over her and settling himself between her legs. It was a new sensation - an _odd_ one. Typically, he kept some distance between them when he fed; even when he came to her in her own bed, even when he played with her in the bath, _never_ did he hold her like this, skin on skin. _Like a lover._

_Claustrophobic._

_Does his heart beat?_

“Please,” Branwen tried again, “I am betrothed—”

“No, you aren’t, Branwen.” She might’ve said that she saw a hint of pity in his eyes, then, the vaguest remnant of the man that he might’ve been. “Not any longer. There is no one outside of _us.”_

He propped himself on one arm, running the knuckles of his free hand down her neck and breast. Gasping, she shoved his hand away; he rarely touched her _there,_ and never when he could actually _see_ her. It felt far too intimate. She did not want to allow the monster such _intimacies._

Loki’s eyes burned. “So _proud,_ even now. You’ve no reason for _pride,_ elf. No _dignity._ No one to impress with this feigned modesty, acting as if I haven’t _already_ made you come undone, time and time again.” Lowering his mouth to her neck, he slid his tongue across the burning bite-mark, and Branwen shook as her nerves seemed to spark and fire. Crimson smeared his mouth when he pulled away; she could practically taste the copper on his breath.

“This is different.”

“Right you are,” Loki replied, “for this time, _I_ will enjoy myself.” He smiled, and she could not bear the sight of it, so she squeezed her eyes closed. “The devil always gets his due.”

His mouth returned to her neck, and Branwen was grateful for it - the sensation provided a welcome distraction from reality, an opportunity to simply lie back and feel. _Even_ if some of that feeling was pain… it was worth it. It was better than _thinking._

He did not make any further attempts to caress her breasts, and she soon felt his hand tracing a familiar path from her navel, down to the apex of her thighs. His fingers teased and prodded, gathering slickness. Branwen whined as the grip of his teeth tightened, and he made a strangled sort of snarl, shoving his fingers inside of her.

As she opened her eyes, stars burst across her vision again; he was bleeding her dry. Did he know? Would he _care?_ “Please,” she cried, tugging at his hair - a liberty that she had never dared take, before that moment. _“Please,_ Loki... too much. Taking too much.”

He withdrew, licking his lips, _panting._ “Not yet.” A sticky kiss on her cheek, and then he was pushing down his trousers, aligning himself against her. He lifted a hand to the nape of his neck, where her fingers tangled in his dark hair. Branwen expected him to tear her hands away, to pin her manacled wrists to the bed, but he didn’t. Instead, he simply curled his fingers around her own for a moment, as if reassuring himself that she was still holding onto him, or encouraging her to tighten her grip.

Perhaps he _needed_ her to fight, in order to enjoy himself. The thought turned her stomach, but she _had_ to move, _needed_ to hold onto him, _wanted_ to fight him… She yanked his hair, and he hissed in pain. _So,_ she thought, she’d managed to hurt him.

_Good._

_You make pain something captivating._

Loki bit her again as he entered her, one harsh, unforgiving thrust, and a sob was torn from her throat; the sting of him moving inside of her was bearable, but the _shame_ of it wasn’t, and her battered, abused neck was on fire. She couldn’t speak. She could barely even _see._

Her grip on his hair began to loosen, strands running through her fingers. Her own power could not keep up, could not restore her quickly enough, and Loki seemed far past noticing or showing any measure of restraint. _His sheets will be terribly stained,_ she thought, her hand falling to the mattress. The numbness was welcome, but it still frightened her. _He will not be able to stop himself, this time._

It gave her a small sense of grim satisfaction, imagining how furious the monster would be with himself when he realized that he’d lost control, that he’d let her die. _You lose,_ she thought.

_We both lose, I suppose._

But then he took her hand in his, twining their fingers together, and Branwen arched and gasped as his magic seeped through her skin, rushing through her veins, cold as ice. Loki withdrew his teeth from her skin, pressing his lips to her ear. _“Stay,_ Branwen, stay with me.”

 _Why should I?_ she thought. She had no desire to smell her own blood, to feel his slick skin sliding against hers, to hear the sounds he was making, or the sounds he was teasing from her. Though, some part of her urged her to chase the relief that he’d offered her so many times before, and so Branwen bit her lip and tried to drown out everything but the fire burning inside of her and the chill of his magic.

He latched onto her neck again, kissing and sucking at her skin as the rhythm he’d set became rougher, more erratic, building to something - but she was too spent to follow. Branwen’s eyes fluttered closed, and his grip on her hand became crushing. _“Stay,”_ he hissed against her skin, and then, “Say my name.”

 _Monster,_ she wanted to say, but the pain was very nearly gone now, burnt out by his magic and his touch and her own exhaustion.

“Now,” he said, a touch of desperation in his voice. “My name, now.”

He wanted the _control_ back, she realized - wanted to slake his thirst, rein in the monster. Perhaps he realized how quickly she was fading. Branwen reminded herself that she’d vowed to survive and escape him; if she _did_ want to live, it would likely be in her best interests for him to find satisfaction, for him to be finished with her.

And so she whispered, _“Loki,”_ and she tasted blood as his lips crushed against hers, groaning as he reached his climax, and after that, she wasn’t able to feel anything at all.

 

* * *

 

She must’ve only been unconscious for a moment or two, because when she opened her eyes again, Loki was still braced atop her, their fingers twined. He was panting heavily, his mouth suspended barely above her own. His breath, sweet and metallic, made her stomach lurch.

Branwen could feel his magic flowing through her veins, icy and foreign. Blinking slowly, she tried to get her eyes to focus. _Look the monster in the eyes._ His pupils were blown so wide that she could barely see the crimson of his irises, and she immediately tried to recoil, but there was nowhere to go.

“Lie still,” Loki demanded, his chest heaving. His eyes closed, and she could see the tension in the set of his jaw. “Do not try to move.”

Some of the feeling began to return to her numb fingers and toes, and as the feeling spread, she became horribly aware of just how _sore_ she was. She realized, too, that her healing magic seemed to evade her grasp.

She’d used it all, been drained entirely.

Swallowing down her nerves, she tested the responsiveness of her muscles, squeezing his hand. “If you let go,” she asked, “will I perish?”

“Yes.” His head bowed, his forehead resting against hers. Did he feel regret? It was far too late for that, now. The grip on her hand tightened, as if he feared that she would try to pull away, try to end it. “Your life-force sustains me, and now mine restores you. Fitting.”

Relief swept through her then, contradictory and bitter; she’d been prepared to _die_ only moments before, but now… _now,_ she was grateful to be alive.

 _Shameful,_ she thought, blinking back tears. _I am a coward. I have always been a coward._

“Hush,” he whispered. “Hush. Your power will restore itself, in time.” He rolled to his side, though his grip on her hand remained firm, pinning her under the heavy weight of his arm. Loki pressed his lips to her cheek for a moment. “There was nothing you could’ve done. Sleep.”

And as his magic swelled inside of her, she did.

 

* * *

 

He was curled around her when she awoke, though he must’ve gotten up at some point or another, for the bed was pristine. _They_ were pristine, as well; the blood was gone, along with the worst of the pain, and they were both under the blankets. It seemed that Loki was truly _sleeping,_ and Branwen marvelled at the oddness of it, seeing his face smooth and peaceful.

She wondered if she’d be able to kill him, while he was sleeping unawares.

The moment she shifted, Loki’s eyes flickered open, and her breath caught in her throat.

“Don’t move, elf-maid.”

Branwen licked her lips, trying to think of something to say, and grimaced; while she might’ve been cleaned, the taste of blood still lingered. “You had no right,” she said, her voice rough. “No right to do as you’ve done. The king—”

“Oh, I have no _doubt_ that he’d be horrified,” Loki interrupted, “but he is not coming. No one is coming, not for you, not for me. They will forget us, here in the shadows. Perhaps when Ragnarök comes again, we’ll finally be freed.”

“Do you not wish to free yourself from this state?” she cried. “Loki of Asgard was known to be a clever man; there must be _some_ way to change this, to return to your former life—”

“There is no going _back_ from this,” he spat, his eyes shining in the firelight. “And you are _lying_ to yourself if you pretend otherwise.” He grabbed her hip, rolling her to face him. “Do you understand me, Branwen? I cannot be _reasoned_ with. There is no _saving_ me.”

“Then I suppose I must endeavor to kill you.”

Loki laughed, and she winced as his fingers dug into her skin. “You can certainly try,” he said. He released her abruptly, rolling over onto his back. “I am sated, for now. Leave.”

 

* * *

 

That night marked yet another change in their arrangement.

It was several days before he fed on her again, and when he did, he’d first hauled her off to the bath, for Branwen had been in a fighting mood. She had dared to hope that things were going to go back to the way they were, when he dragged her into the tub, had hoped that they would resume their earlier ritual. He’d always claimed to be so disgusted with her, after all; perhaps he’d be ashamed to take her again.

Or maybe he would worry that he would lose control and kill her, considering the mess he’d made of things the last time.

But he waited until he was inside of her to bite her, this time, bending her over the edge of the bathtub and bringing her to climax as he teased her with his fingers and lapped at her skin. It was clever, calculated - he seemed to become satisfied as soon as he’d reached his own end, and he reached it not long after hers, long before he’d had the opportunity to bleed her dry.

He’d washed her up a bit, then hauled her to his bed, trapping her in his arms and promptly falling asleep. Branwen wondered if he knew that she’d sneak away to try to find some way to kill him in his moment of weakness, if she could.

She resumed her tallying, noting that he seemed to go a bit longer in between feedings, now that he’d begun taking her to bed, as well. Was it to spare her body the stress, or did it truly curb his appetite, somehow?

Likewise, she resumed her work on the mortar below the tower stairs, immensely satisfied when she began to see slight progress. Every once in a while, she’d consider the idea that the magical wards might hold her in, even if she did manage to break through the stone, but she put such thoughts aside. She could not afford them.

Sometimes she found herself craving Loki’s touch, and those were the days that she slipped the poison from the spot under her mattress where she’d hidden it, lamenting her cowardice and the dishonor she’d surely brought her family. They would never accept her, now. Even if Matholwch had somehow succeeded in his campaign, she had failed her task.

She had failed her task, and she had lost her honor.

Sometimes she imagined Matholwch there, while she sat chipping away at the walls of her prison. It was an exercise in memory, for although it had only been months since she’d arrived, by her reckoning, she found the world outside more and more difficult to envision.

Sometimes she wondered if it was all a dream.

“You’d likely know more about this creature than I,” she whispered one day to imaginary-Matholwch. “You and your fascination with dark magics. And you’ve not even tried to save me.”

Her shoulders sagged; she was exhausted, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. “Loki will be angry that I haven’t eaten,” she confided. “He says that he wants me pliant and weak, but it is a lie - it is my responsiveness that he craves. I can see it in his eyes. I was always good at reading faces, you know.”

She struck again with the spike, and the rag slipped, bringing her skin into direct contact with the iron. Branwen hissed, but quickly rewrapped it. With any luck, it would heal quickly, and Loki would be none the wiser.

“Well, I _say_ that I am good at reading faces. I did not do such a good job with yours, did I? I thought you loved me.”

“You were a very agreeable match,” he finally responded. “Very pretty and sweet. I wish you’d proven more useful; if you’d only taken care of the guard, as you’d been told—”

“No,” she said. “I could not kill a man in cold blood. Even for Mother and Father, even for _you.”_

She imagined his elegant, disinterested shrug, the turn of his lip. “And so you are here.”

“And so I am here.”

“Loki Laufeyson’s whore.”

Branwen wiped away tears on the back of her hand, streaking her cheeks with dust. She’d made good progress, this time, but that meant that she was covered with even more sweat and grime; she’d have to bathe, before Loki summoned her again.

 _“Listen_ to yourself,” Matholwch said. “Always thinking of _him,_ his _wants_ and his _needs._ You belong here, now. We have no use for you any longer.”

“You are not real,” she replied. “You are not real, and you are _wrong.”_

“As you wish, Branwen,” he said, shrugging again. “But you’ve lost track of time, you know. He’ll likely be looking for you soon.”

Cursing, she scrambled to wrap the spike entirely so that she could safely tuck it inside her housecoat, burning her hand again in her haste. She fled up the tower stairs, her heart pounding, and quickly rinsed her hands and face in the water bowl in the small room by her chamber, checking her hair to ensure that it was free of debris.

Loki was waiting as soon as she emerged, an odd smile on his face as he looked her up and down, almost as if he could see through her. “What are you hiding, elf?”

“Nothing,” she replied quickly, “aside from my hatred of you, perhaps.”

He laughed, seizing her elbow and tugging her towards her room. “That is hardly hidden, is it?” Then he stopped suddenly, his eyes fixed on her hand. “What is this?”

“I burned myself trying to light one of the candles,” Branwen blustered. “Perhaps if you’d leave the halls lit, I would not—”

“These are not fire-burns,” Loki interrupted, holding her hand in front of his face. “They are magical.” Eyes narrowed, he suddenly grabbed the belt of her robe and yanked it open, and the iron spike clattered to the floor.

Her heart stopped.

“My, my.” He bent and swept the spike from the floor, and she grit her teeth as he raised the point to her heart, applying only the faintest pressure. “I see,” he said, watching impassively as her skin reddened and burned. “Cold iron. I suppose you’d hoped I would be similarly vulnerable? I’m afraid it has no effect on me, but I admire your creativity.”

When she began to cry, it was partly from the pain, and partly from relief; he thought that she’d meant it for _him,_ which meant that her secret project was safe.

“It was worth a try.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The names Branwen and Matholwch are taken from "Branwen ferch Llŷr," the Second Branch of the Mabinogi.


	4. In Shadow

“You do not like it?”

Loki trailed his fingers down her bare stomach absentmindedly, holding her close. It was  _ cold _ \- cold despite the fire, cold despite the heat that his teeth and his touch always seemed to draw from her. Branwen shivered, and his hand stilled.

_ Cold, cold, cold. _

“It is very pretty,” she managed to reply, blinking back tears at the sight above them; he’d charmed the ceiling into a perfect recreation of the stars above Alfheim, bright and familiar. “But it is not real.”

She could feel his irritation; perhaps she should’ve simply praised the illusion. The image on the ceiling warped and rippled, a blue, sunny sky taking its place, dotted with clouds, and she winced at the brightness of it. When was the last time she’d seen so much light?

“This is one of my last memories of walking in sunlight,” he said, and Branwen realized that she could hear the faint rustle of wind in the leaves, the trickling of water. A lump caught in her throat - she did not want to share his memories. She did not want to remember that he had even been anything other than the _ monster. _

He rolled to his side, running a possessive hand up her chest and throat, his eyelids heavy. Branwen knew he yearned for sleep - he’d taken her in the bath, both body and blood, then brought her here, to his pristine bed. It was a perfectly familiar routine, as natural and expected as her own heartbeat. 

_ So why did he not sleep, now? _

Even now, he only bedded her when he was feeding, and she’d come to view it as a sort of equivalent exchange, mutually beneficial to the both of them. It was the only thing that alleviated their cravings for each other, cravings that they’d  _ both _ seemed to despise with equal measure. Loki, prideful and arrogant, thought himself above such slavish desires, while Branwen loathed feeling any sort of pleasure at the hands of such a twisted, malevolent shade of a man.

However, more and more frequently, he would keep her  _ far _ longer than necessary, stroking her skin and watching her with those ever-observant crimson eyes,  _ evaluating, _ deliberating. He’d even almost kissed her on the lips, this time, something that he hadn’t shown any interest in doing since the first time he’d taken her; she had twisted her head, and Loki had left a bloody kiss on her cheek, instead.

“I’d thought that you missed the sunlight,” he said. His hand was heavy on her throat.

“I do,” Branwen replied, closing her eyes. “I do.”

 

* * *

 

Loki sat in a chair by the fire, holding Branwen firmly on his lap. She wasn’t fond of straddling him like this; she greatly preferred it when he stayed behind her, when she could avoid his gaze. There was something sharp and intense in the way that he watched her, and she found it terribly unsettling. He wrapped her long braid around his hand, tugging her head back and forcing her to bare her neck. 

For a moment or two, they stayed that way, Loki studying her naked body under hooded lids, while Branwen’s eyes watered. His grip slackened. “Touch me,” he said, reaching between them to stroke himself. “Be sweet for me, Branwen, and I shall give you a room filled with sunlight.”

Her breath caught in her throat; the heat of the fire was warm on her back, and she could almost imagine that  _ he _ was warm, too. Tentatively, she wrapped her fingers around him, the heat inside of her building as he sighed in satisfaction. “How long has it been?” she asked. “How long have I truly been here?”

“Has your record-keeping failed you?” Loki’s head fell back against the head of the chair, and he moved his hands to her hips, fingers grasping. “It has been nearly a year.”

_ A year… _

He rocked his hips, dragging her against him, and she dug her teeth into her lip in an attempt to mask her answering moan. “I  _ hunger,  _ Branwen,” he said. “Do you know how long it has been, since I last fed?”

She shook her head; words seemed far too difficult to grasp.

“A day. Only a day.” His nostrils flared as he took a long, deep breath, his eyes nearly black. “Sometimes, I wonder if you are even real, or if I am truly still in Hel. Are you  _ real,  _ Branwen?”

_ Sometimes, _ she thought,  _ I wonder the same thing. _ “I am real. My  _ pain _ is real.”

“Pain and pleasure.” Loki grunted and pulled her hand away, lifting her just enough to position himself at her entrance. She lowered herself onto him slightly, her body far more eager than her reason, and his eyelashes fluttered.

Branwen felt an odd stirring of emotion, then, a slight sense of  _ power,  _ power over  _ him, _ his needs. What did he have, without her? 

_ Nothing. _

He was surprised when she sank down onto him, taking him of her own volition - surprised, and seemingly overcome, for he pulled her close and sank his teeth into her neck at once; tears welled in her eyes from the pain, sharp as always, though she already craved the relief that was sure to follow.

_ Relief. _

It rarely took him long to follow her once she’d reached climax, but this time, something seemed  _ different. _ This time, he seemed to purposefully draw out the encounter, to linger in her embrace, to wring out every last drop of passion, to  _ take. _

_ Take, take, take…  _

She was limp and floating when he pulled away from her neck and kissed her, bloody lips crushing against hers.  _ My blood on his tongue, _ she thought. It did not repulse her as it once had; perhaps  _ she _ was becoming a monster, too.

 

* * *

 

Branwen lay on the bed in her chamber, watching the clouds pass by overhead. It was around noon. She knew this because Loki, increasingly eager to encourage her enthusiasm in their  _ activities, _ had conjured the illusion to match the passing of the Midgardian day - or so he’d claimed. At the very least, it gave her time in the castle a sense of structure.

“So  _ accepting _ of his gifts,” a voice in the corner said. “Such a  _ disappointment _ you’ve become, Branwen.”

Sighing, she pushed herself up on her elbows, her head spinning. Loki had been in a temper - though not with  _ her,  _ strangely enough - and he had taken too much from her, and now here she was, left to sip juice and ‘recover.’

“Why must you plague me, Matholwch?”

His grey eyes were dull, bored. Had he always seemed that way to her? Had she imagined him as more than he was, once, long ago? 

“I merely offer a voice of reason.  _ You _ are the one who has lost your way.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head slowly. It felt too heavy for her neck. “I never  _ had _ a way, you know. Not my own way. No  _ choice.” _

“Well, you have a choice _ now,  _ Branwen.”

“No.” She lay back down, folding her hands on her stomach as she focused on one of the small, slightly-darkened clouds appearing near the corner of her ceiling. “There is no leaving this place.”

 

* * *

 

He had her on her hands and knees on the floor by her bed, then cleaned them up with a cloth a bit before dragging her onto the bed and wrapping his long limbs around her. Loki had become much less  _ messy, _ over the months they’d been together - other than the times that he was too angry or too hungry to care. His hair was a horrible mess. Branwen had learned that pulling it was one of the only ways she could cause him any sort of hurt, and that  _ excited _ her.

“You were betrothed?” he asked suddenly, trailing cold fingers down the column of her throat. There was something slightly soothing about it, and she looked up at the sky above them, willing herself to fight her drowsiness. 

Clouds were gathering. Was there really a storm brewing outside, or was it all random?

“I  _ am _ betrothed.”

Loki scoffed, his short fingernails scraping lightly over the bite-mark healing just above her collarbone, and Branwen flinched. _ “No,” _ he snapped, “you  _ aren’t.  _ Who would want you, now that you’ve been so thoroughly  _ ruined?” _

She made no response, and he sighed, lowering his head to rest on the pillow, his lips near her ear. “Besides, such a  _ weak _ man has no right to claim you.”

“Weak?” Matholwch had always seemed so  _ impressive _ to her, so  _ ideal… _

“Where is he? You have been abandoned in the darkness to be ravished,  _ devoured. _ Where is this man, this lover who  _ promised _ himself to you?”

_ The clouds are darkening,  _ she thought.  _ I miss feeling the rain. _

“Do you know what I would’ve done, elf, had you been mine?”

Branwen twisted to look at him, their noses nearly touching. There was something desperate in his eyes, something that spoke of madness. _ I have always been good at reading faces, _ she thought. It frightened her.

“I would’ve torn the Nine Realms apart,” Loki whispered fervently. “I would’ve  _ killed _ any man who dared to touch you, because you are  _ mine.” _

 

* * *

 

It had been some time since she had actually  _ looked _ at herself in the mirror, and the sight was startling. She had grown even paler, certainly, but it was not the tone of her skin that disturbed her - it was her eyes. They seemed  _ flat,  _ somehow. 

_ Lifeless. _

Branwen rubbed her cheeks, trying to bring some color to her skin.  _ I look like a shade,  _ she thought.  _ Am I a shade? _

The bruising on her neck and shoulders seemed to be taking longer to heal. Perhaps it was because Loki had been so wrathful these past few weeks, so close to snapping and breaking her for good. She wondered if it was  _ her _ fault; was he growing bored with her?

_ No,  _ she thought. He seemed to want her as badly as ever, at least on most days, to cling to her like a second skin. On other occasions, he would disappear for hours and days on end, and she  _ missed _ him then, because when he appeared again, he was invariably angry and wild. Branwen knew enough of sorcery to sense the air of spent seiðr around him those days, but whatever sorcery it was that Loki attempted when he hid himself away, it was clear that he failed.

And Branwen…  _ well,  _ she supposed she was the only outlet for his frustration.

_ What has become of your pride, Branwen?  _ All of her plans of escape, her determination… where were they now?

_ Plans. _

Blinking, Branwen leaned over the wash basin, closer to the mirror, examining the small scar over her heart. He’d said that he hadn’t  _ meant _ it, that he hadn’t  _ known _ that prolonged exposure to the iron would burn her beyond what elf-magic could heal. Was that true?

She thought it more likely that it was some sort of lesson. 

_ Iron. _

What had become of her one tool of escape? Was it still in his chambers, hidden away? She hadn’t thought - hadn’t  _ dared _ \- to return to her secret activities beneath the tower stairs, not since the day he’d come so near to catching her in the act. Somehow,  _ knowing _ it was there as a possibility was easier than actually making the attempt to escape and failing, she supposed.

The scar was such a small thing, barely-noticeable, but she could not seem to look away.

Eventually, Branwen went to her bed and lay on her back, watching the sky overhead. The sun was setting.

_ It isn’t real. _

 

* * *

 

The stone floor of the kitchen was painfully hard and cold, and it had been a great relief when Loki rolled them over, sparing her back. He was in one of his  _ affectionate _ moods, it seemed, watching her face with a sort of rapt, devoted attention as they both tried to catch their breath. The glow of the fire made the crimson of his eyes even  _ deeper, _ somehow.

Branwen wondered if she should have begged him to bespell her, all those months ago.

He trailed a finger down her chest, following the path of a wayward drop of blood, then licked it clean. 

She looked away.

“Have I satisfied you, elf?”

“Yes.” Why did he bother asking her? He knew what he did, what he made her  _ feel.  _ How she  _ hated _ it.

“Hmm.” Loki took her by the chin, turning her face back to him. “What was the name of this betrothed of yours?” he suddenly asked.

“Why—”

“His name,” he pressed.

She bit back the stirrings of her temper.  _ Why now? _ Now, when he was still  _ inside _ of her…

“Well?”

“Matholwch.”

“I see. And is it  _ his _ face you imagine, when we are together this way? His touch?”

Branwen sighed, her shoulders sagging. “No,” she replied. It was the truth - why lie to him?

_ God of Lies. _

He wrapped his arms around her waist when she made an attempt to pull away. “No?” he said. “No pleasant memories to distract yourself from the monster?”

“No memories. There is only you.” It was a bitter thing to admit, bitter to think of, and he was terribly cruel to make her say it.

But Loki seemed surprised. Surely he’d known, hadn’t he? His eyes widened slightly, his embrace tightening; it reminded her of a serpent. “Only me?”

“Only you.”

He kissed her.

 

* * *

 

Branwen could not evade him long enough to search his chamber for the iron spike, or to go exploring in the corridors below the castle for another, and her desperation was increasing by the day. Her sense of complacency towards her state had been severely disturbed by a series of increasingly-vivid dreams, all featuring  _ him. _

She had experienced quite a few nightmares since she’d come to stay in the castle, many of which were little more than memories of actual terrors she had experienced at Loki’s hands, memories of blood and pain and  _ shame. _

Recently, however, he had begun to appear in her dreams not as a  _ monster,  _ but as a  _ man.  _ Green eyes, warm skin… Branwen found these dreams far more disturbing than her nightmares.

In the latest, the one that served as something of a tipping-point, she had dreamed that she was with child, and that the child was _his,_ and that she was _happy._ _He_ was happy. When she woke, she felt sick… but there was also a sharp feeling of _regret,_ regret for something lost that she’d never had in the first place. She had not known him as a man.

She’d only known the monster.

_ You have to escape, _ she told herself in the mirror.  _ You have already lost so much of yourself… will you lose everything? _

The only chance she had, as far as she could see, was to either anger him so greatly that he cast her aside for a time, or to incapacitate him. If she found her chisel, she could return to her work below the stairs, and then she would have purpose. She would have  _ control. _

Branwen made herself pretty for him, as much as she was able. She pinched some color into her cheeks and worried her lip between her teeth, hoping to redden it. He seemed to like it when her hair was pulled back out of the way, so she plaited it into a loose braid, baring her neck, and rather than the one gown he’d let her keep, she put on one of his housecoats.

She uncorked the little bottle of poison hidden under her bed and downed it in one swallow, then left for his chambers, heart nearly beating out of her chest.

She was going to seduce him.

 

* * *

 

The cold of the poison was already creeping through her by the time she reached his door, immune to her healing magic. Branwen could only hope that it would prove difficult for Loki’s own magic to overcome, even though she did not dare hope the effect on him would be as great as the effect on an elf.

It was called  _ ‘elf’s-bane’  _ for a reason, after all.

She hoped that it would render him unconscious for a time, at the very least, and that he would consume enough of her tainted blood that she would not succumb in the attempt. If she had any sort of luck, he would not even notice; he’d simply fall asleep, satiated and drugged, and she would slip from his grasp and recover the spike to hide away for later use.

And, if worst came to worst and he  _ did _ discover her schemes, perhaps he would simply kill her in his rage, and they’d be done with the entire ordeal. At least she would know that she had tried.

Loki looked irritated when he opened his door, at first, and then intrigued. He stepped back to allow her into his chamber, watching her silently. Was he suspicious? Did he know?

The fire in the hearth sprang to life with a slight twitch of his fingers, and still, he remained expressionless. “I did not call for you yet,” he said.

“I know.” She hesitated, wondering what words to choose, how to reel him in without telling any blatant lies. “I was very cold, and…”

He took the bait. “And?”

“And lonely,” she mumbled. At least she did not have to feign her mortification; she was certain that he would enjoy  _ that.  _ “It is so cold, and dark, and there is this great  _ emptiness _ inside of me—” Branwen cut herself off abruptly, casting her eyes to the floor. It was all true.

“I thought,” she continued, loosening the belt of her robe, “that you might… warm me.”

The robe fell to the floor, and Branwen stood stock-still and shivered as Loki slowly perused her form, almost as if he were seeing her for the first time. He said nothing, and her panic swelled and bubbled; she could feel the ice in her veins creeping closer toward her heart, chilling her to the bone.

“Please,” she said, stepping closer to him. “Please, Loki, surely you must understand - I need to  _ feel _ something—”

“Get on the bed.” His eyes were darkening, now, and she nearly cried in relief. “On your hands and knees.”

The position was an unfortunate one; she doubted that she would be able to hold herself up for much longer, unless he rid her of some of the poison. It was unfortunate, too, that he stood by the door and watched as she climbed onto the bed, making her feel even more exposed.

_ Exposed and so, so cold. _

She curved her back, glancing over her shoulder in a manner that she sincerely hoped was enticing.  _ “Please, _ Loki.”

He stalked across the room, shedding his vest and tunic as he went, and Branwen hung her head, exhausted and triumphant. It had  _ worked.  _ The mattress dipped slightly as he climbed on the bed behind her, smoothing his large hands down her back, her hips, her thighs. 

It shamed her to realize just how  _ badly _ she craved his touch, even now, while she attempted to trick and poison him.

_ “Pretty Branwen,” _ he crooned, letting out a small, appreciative sigh at the yelp she made when he pressed his fingers inside of her. “I have been having the  _ strangest _ fantasies, of late, and all of them are of  _ you.” _

_ Please, _ she thought, rocking back against him, _ please do not draw this out. _ She did not have the  _ time _ for it. Already, her arms shook. She hoped that he would mistake it for anticipation or fear, if he noticed at all. 

He seemed satisfied that she was ready enough for him, a notion certainly encouraged by the way she whined when he withdrew his fingers to free himself from the soft leather leggings he wore. Her fingers dug into the bedsheets. “Loki—” she began, perfectly ready to beg, but then he began to slowly push himself inside of her, and her voice failed her.

Branwen couldn’t begin to imagine why he was drawing things out so carefully; she had expected him to lose himself in a frenzy almost at once, drawn in by the allure of a willing meal. He curled himself over her, his chest against her back, molding to her form.  _ Slow, steady… _

She tensed in anticipation as he brought his mouth to the back of her neck, but he did not bite her; instead, he kissed and sucked at her skin. It wasn’t as if she could simply beg him to feed on her - that would certainly arouse his suspicions. Fighting the numbness that spread with the poison, she reached over her shoulder and grabbed a fistful of his hair, hoping that would convey some sense of urgency, of  _ need. _

Loki grunted, presumably irritated that she wished to challenge his rhythm, but when she gave his hair another sharp yank, he relented, sinking his teeth into her shoulder. The pain had never felt sweeter, and Branwen cried out, immensely glad that she hadn’t poisoned herself for  _ nothing. _

Her eyelids grew heavy, and she could not tell how much of it was due to the usual loss of blood, and how much was due to the spreading elf’s-bane in her system.  _ Please,  _ she thought,  _ take more, take more. _ It felt like a race against time; sooner or later, he was bound to notice.

And it was not long before he suddenly stilled above her, his teeth leaving her skin. “What have you  _ done?” _ Loki whispered, his mouth at her ear, then he pulled away entirely, rolling her onto her back before entering her again, harder this time. He pinned her hands to the bed, his grip crushing. “Very  _ cunning.” _

Branwen opened her mouth to protest, but found that she couldn’t; had he drained enough of the toxin for her to survive? She certainly hoped so. He’d noticed it far more quickly than she might’ve expected. Loki blinked a bit too slowly, his eyes slightly glazed.

_ Hah, _ she thought.  _ At least it affects him. _

And then, Loki smiled, bringing his lips back to her neck. It confused her; was he not going to  _ stop, _ now that he’d uncovered her ruse? 

“I am a  _ mage, _ little elf-maid,” he breathed, pausing a moment to slowly lap at her skin. “A very  _ powerful _ one, at that. You have made a very risky gamble. Let us see who wakes first.” 

His movements grew increasingly unsteady, but Loki persevered, his weight settling more and more heavily on top of her as her brought himself to climax, still feeding from her, as if her blood was pure and untainted. Groaning, he shifted slightly to one side, just enough to avoid entirely crushing her. Branwen had become so numb that she could no longer tell if he’d even bothered to seal off her wound, or if he’d decided to leave it bleeding.

“Who wakes first,” Loki mumbled, and then she felt him go slack. Only a moment later, so did she.

 

* * *

 

Loki woke first.

When Branwen opened her eyes, he was still half-atop her, his expression worryingly mild. For Loki, she had come to understand that a mild expression always masked a terrible temper. _ I failed, _ she thought, tears pooling in her eyes.  _ All that, and for nothing at all. _

“It seems that you’ve lost our little game,” he said. “Pity.”

They were both still filthy, covered in dried blood and sweat. He must still be under the effects of the poison -  _ she _ certainly still felt it inside of her, dulling her senses. His mask was slipping as he watched her, the rage in his eyes building. Was it over? Would he finally kill her?

“So many  _ kindnesses _ I have shown you,” he spat, “and this is how I am repaid? You would rather  _ die _ than endure my touch?”

Branwen swallowed; her throat was painfully dry. “Have I ever given you cause to think otherwise?”

He bared his teeth, jerking forward slightly, and Branwen flinched and squeezed her eyes closed, preparing for the inevitable. Nothing happened, and she opened them again to find his face only inches from her own.

“You should be  _ thanking _ me, wench.” His voice was mocking, and that somehow worried her more than his anger.  _ “Thank _ me, for I have saved your life most  _ graciously,  _ though you certainly do not deserve it.” She tried to wiggle away when his fingers slid between her thighs, teasing, but he kept her pinned firmly in place, one of his legs resting over her own, heavy and immobile.

“Thank me.” Loki’s touch was an insistent, irresistible thing; she hated that he knew her body so well, that he could stir such feelings in her. “Thank me for your  _ life, _ or I swear by Hel, I’ll not let you leave this chamber again.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, bucking as heat pooled low in her belly, hoping that perhaps he would be placated and leave her. It was not to be; he rolled her halfway onto her belly, his fingers still gently stroking, building her tension higher and higher.

It was more difficult for him to sheath himself inside of her, this time, and the friction made both of them moan. Branwen’s thoughts were scattered.  _ It is far too soon for him to feed. Far too soon… Why? _

His hand slid up her belly to fondle her breasts, and she gasped, tugging on his arm in an attempt to dislodge him. What game was he playing at? He was supposed to be  _ angry _ with her. “Stop,” she said. “Bite me, and be done with it.”

“No.” He kissed her shoulder, his lips barely brushing her skin. “You  _ want _ me to hurt you, elf, because you feel that it gives you an excuse. But this…  _ this _ is your punishment.” He bit the shell of her ear, too lightly to truly hurt, his movements slow and languid.  _ Purposeful. _

She called him a monster, and much worse than that. She pulled his hair, she cursed him, she kicked and attempted to writhe free. But Loki was not easily distracted from his aim, and without the venom and the sting of his bite to distract her, Branwen could focus on nothing but  _ him _ \- his touch, his whispers, the cool smoothness of his skin, sliding against hers.

It was a long, long while before he was finished with her.

 

* * *

 

Loki was not quick to forgive her for what he referred to as her ‘little stunt’ with the poison, and in a happy turn of fate, that meant that he was far less eager to keep her close to him. Whatever he had begun to imagine of her seemed to have been disrupted, and in many ways, they returned to older routines. He would collect her when he wanted her, make use of her, and then send her on her way.

In some ways, the cold dismissals pricked at her heart, though she knew she was a fool for feeling such things.

More free time meant that she was able to explore the depths of the castle more thoroughly, and she eventually came across an old trowel in a closet, hidden behind a statued alcove. It wasn’t as useful as her iron spike… but it was better than nothing.

Her chiselling resumed.

She’d managed quite a bit, and a few of the stones had begun to wobble, though she did not attempt to dislodge them yet; it would likely take every ounce of strength she had to break them out of their place, and besides that, it wouldn’t yet be large enough to allow her through. It was much easier to hide if she left them in place, for now - but the temptation was great.

_ Keep your head down, _ she told herself.  _ Keep your head down, keep your focus, and do not give up. Do not surrender. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! <3


	5. In Sunlight

“What was your crime, _Lady_ Branwen?” he asked one afternoon, lingering in her bed.

She had been having the dreams again, the ones of him as an ordinary man, warm and inviting, and she began to suspect that they were actually _his,_ for his eyes always seemed to hold the most longing after she’d had them. Twining his fingers with hers, he rested their joined hands on his chest. Branwen could feel the faint, low beating of his heart.

“Why do you wish to know?”

“We’ve been together for many months, and the rest of time stretches before us; is it not natural, that I might want to learn more about the woman who will be at my side for eternity?”

“Do not _say_ such things,” she snapped. “The king—”

“What of the king?” There was an edge to his voice.

“The king seeks a way to rid you of this curse,” she said. “If he does, then you will be freed.” Of course, she did not believe that the Allfather would ever find success in his quest; she’d given up hope of any outside intervention long ago. Still, it was better for Loki to think that she meant to escape eternity with him by means of his brother, rather than for him to suspect that she had an escape plan of her own.

“Preposterous.” His grip on her fingers tightened. “And if he _were_ to accomplish this, what do you suppose would become of you?”

“I would be free as well - a free woman, like any other.”

Loki chuckled. “Is that what you imagine - that I would allow you to be free of me?”

Knowing that such things would never come to pass, Branwen decided to humor him. “Do you imagine that the Allfather would allow you to keep me this way?” she asked. “A slave to be abused? Even the Æsir would not allow such things.”

“He allows it now. For all he knows, I’ve already killed you… and my dear brother is easily swayed by sentiment. Besides,” he said, turning to face her, the tip of one of his sharpened teeth showing slightly as he smiled, “I have already told you that I would destroy any who tried to keep you from me. What we have shared, it cannot be undone.”

“And you have also said that there is no saving you; these imaginings are pointless.”

His smile widened. “That they are. So I will ask you again, elf - what was your crime?”

“Treason.” Loki’s gaze was unwavering, and she relented even further. What did it matter, after all? “You claimed to know of Alfheim’s history?”

“Of course. I was an heir to the throne, if you’ll recall. I likely know more about Alfheim’s history than _you_ do.”

Frowning, she tried to pull her fingers away, but he held them fast. On the ceiling above them, the sun shone brightly. Branwen wished that she could feel its warmth.

“The current ruling family is very purist,” she said. “Or _was_ \- but I assume that they still rule, as Asgard stepped in to put down the rebellion.”

“Ah, a rebellion? I see.” His eyes sparkled. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; you do seem to derive a great deal of enjoyment from struggling against your betters.”

“It was not _my_ rebellion.”

Loki seemed disappointed that she hadn’t risen to his teasing. “Whose, then?”

“My betrothed.” It still felt too odd to say his name when she spoke of him to Loki. “And my family. My whole clan, really. My house had not held any significant power in generations, you see.”

“And so you betrayed your king.”

Branwen sighed. She was surprised by how little emotion she felt about it, now; perhaps it was because it all seemed so far-away, another lifetime. “Not only _my_ king,” she said. “The King of the Nine. I was sent to Asgard under the pretense of seeking sanctuary, serving as a spy.”

He appeared to be so terribly _captivated_ \- but then, she supposed they were both starved for entertainment. “How were you found out?”

“A move was made to assassinate the Allfather. I did not do my part, and so the mission failed. It did not take long for the Einherjar to find me, after that.”

Loki whistled, and she fought the urge to pull away from him. Was that _really_ what it took to impress him - an attempt to murder his brother?

“Branwen Kingslayer,” he said. “I must remind myself to be more appreciative of the fact that your talents remain underdeveloped. What of the rest of the rebellion? Your family? Your _betrothed?”_

“I do not know. I was taken to the dungeon beneath the palace, tried and sentenced. I’d begged to be spared the axe, to do _anything—“_ Her voice cracked. “The king came for me one night. He offered a chance at life, and perhaps even eventual freedom. I took it.”

“A choice you regret?”

“It varies from moment to moment.” She broke eye contact, then, turning back to the ceiling; how _dare_ he look disappointed. He had _no right._ “At the end of the day, I suppose this is preferable to Hel.”

“Spoken like one who has never _been_ to Hel.” His fingers drummed for a moment on the back of her hand, deliberating. “This is far worse.”

 

* * *

 

She asked him, once, what sorcery it was that he was attempting. Loki seemed surprised that she was able to sense it. “You must have a touch of talent about you, elf-maid,” he commented, brow raised. “Pity it was never nurtured.”

“Nature provides,” Branwen replied. “It is not right for us to seek out more power than what we were born with, they say.”

He leaned against the counter in the kitchen, looming over her as she sliced up a pear. _Why must he hover so?_ she fumed, and in her agitation, she nicked the tip of her finger with the blade. _Oh, no._ There was no doubt that he would succumb to the temptation, and she was tired, _so tired,_ and she did not wish to _deal_ with him right now…

Loki caught her wrist and took the tip of her finger into his mouth. His eyes were dark, and Branwen had already resigned herself to the prospect of being bent over the counter and bled out, when he suddenly let her go. He leaned back against the counter, acting almost as if nothing had even happened; Branwen resumed her slicing, feeling slightly shaken.

“I find your stance on sorcery intriguing, considering the fact that you were willing to commit _treason_ for those who are proponents of dark magic.”

Shrugging, she popped a slice of pear in her mouth. Loki claimed that fruit made her taste sweeter. For a time, she’d considered attempting to make her blood as pungent and unappealing as possible, but she had no doubt that he would feed on her even if she tasted like tar, and so she’d stopped caring.

If she was going to have to endure him, she was at _least_ going to eat whatever she wished.

“I have never seen you eat,” she remarked. “Not once, in these two years we’ve spent together. Are you not able to eat, or is it simply preference?”

His laugh was sharp. _“‘Preference.’_ You make it sound so… Well, elf, I suppose it _is_ a preference. Food tastes like ash on my tongue; it does nothing to nourish me. Before you arrived, oh, how I _tried.”_

Branwen averted her gaze, uncomfortable. When he spoke of _before…_ she imagined him starving, alone in the darkness, and she felt _pity._ She should not _pity_ him.

“Will you not tell me of your spellwork, then? I can tell that it is taxing.”

“I am testing my vulnerabilities. This form is still new to me, unfamiliar. _Know thyself,_ as they say.”

She swallowed. “And… have you found any?”

Loki’s eyes were practically glowing as he replied, “Only one.”

 

* * *

 

Even after all the time that had passed, Branwen still occasionally tried to refuse him. She _needed_ it, needed to see his temper, his _greed._ She needed the reminder that Loki as she saw him in her dreams was only that - a fiction.

Or, if her suspicion that she was seeing his dreams was correct, perhaps it was more truthful to say that the Loki she saw in some moments was a _memory,_ lost to time and shadow. That was a more painful truth to consider, that he _had_ once been capable of kindness and compassion, only to have it torn away.

She reminded herself that his _reasons_ did not matter, nor did his past, or even her own; all that mattered now was survival and escape.

When she _did_ make any attempts to evade him, he would drag her away to do as he pleased, and Branwen would feel thankful, at least, for the lesson. Her work on the stone wall beneath the stairs always progressed more rapidly after these ‘lessons,’ fueled by her hurt and her _rage._

Rage was becoming a familiar thing, hatred and temper replacing the apathy that had threatened so long to consume her. The rage helped to push her towards _escape,_ and more than that, it burned away any _softer_ feelings that may have begun to spring to life. Branwen understood now how Loki had always seemed to loathe and crave her in equal measure.

Some days, she worried that no matter how far she fled, she would never truly be rid of him.

 

* * *

 

Loki sat across from her in the bath, holding her foot out of the water, massaging her ankle. “It is your own fault, Branwen,” he said. “You should not have tried to flee from me.”

Squaring her jaw, she lowered herself deeper into the water. She saw no need to respond. He had nearly caught her beneath the tower stairs, and she had tried to run upstairs quickly enough to wash the dust and grime away; such measures had been rendered unnecessary when she’d misstepped and tumbled down.

It had been painful, and she had cursed and howled when she came to a very ungraceful landing right at Loki’s feet, but it had been a useful distraction. He carried her off to the bath, silent and severe, and her secret remained safe.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” he asked. “Why do you cause yourself this unnecessary pain?”

“I thought that you found my pain _captivating.”_

His grip on her ankle tightened for a moment, and Branwen winced. Perhaps she should be more careful - the last thing she wanted was to give him ideas. If she could not walk… if she could not walk, she could not _escape._

“Your pain is only captivating when I am the _cause_ of it. Consider me an artist, and you are my masterpiece.”

She tried to ignore the way heat pooled inside of her when he kissed the sole of her foot. “Are you going to heal it?”

“No,” Loki replied. “No, I am not.”

 

* * *

 

He’d said that he only knew of one vulnerability in his current state, and Branwen was desperate to know what it might be. Despite his latest bout of _affection -_ for she could think of no other way to describe it - her battle against the stone wall continued to proceed at a rather pleasing rate; she even dared to imagine that she would actually be _successful_ in her endeavor.

Rendering Loki unconscious or incapacitated somehow remained a key part of her plans, however, and it was a snag that she could not seem to overcome. She was certain that removing the stones themselves would cause a great deal more noise than her painfully-timid chiselling, and beyond that, she was concerned that he might be able to offer pursuit outside of the castle. If she opened a hole in the stonework, would it interfere with the Allfather’s magic? Would Loki be freed?

She would need a head start, in the case that he _was_ able to escape and follow her.

 _If he is able to follow,_ some part of her whispered, _then you will never escape him._

It was a part of her that Branwen chose to ignore. It was better to hope.

 

* * *

 

“Mine,” he whispered, moving slowly inside of her. _“Mine.”_

“Yours.”

He kissed her, and she could practically _feel_ his joy, his satisfaction. Loki had given her a very pretty dress, which he had then removed almost immediately, carrying her to his bed. The fire roared; he must’ve had it burning for some time before he’d brought her to his chamber, for the air to be so warm.

Branwen knew why - it was the dreams.

She was certain now, without a shadow of a doubt, that her dreams originated from his own mind, though she’d never dared to ask him about it. For all she knew, it was intentional, an attempt to enthrall her mind just as surely as he’d enthralled her body.

They had been lying under one of the tall trees of Alfheim, in the dream, tangled together and breathless. She was content to be there with him - _truly_ content - and Loki’s smile was comforting. It was a look that she’d never seen on his face, outside of dreams.

She realized that he _hated_ her for making him think of such things, things that he knew he could never have.

“Mine,” he said again, and she felt him shake, barely-held self control nearly failing him as he lowered his mouth to her neck, scraping his teeth against her skin too lightly to break through.

When she cried this time, it was for him.

 

* * *

 

“This is your fault,” he told her, pinning her against the cold stone wall. _“Your_ fault, you little wretch, for tormenting me this way. _Your_ fault that I want to _live.”_

“Please,” Branwen wheezed, attempting to pry his hands from her throat. “Please, Loki! I have done nothing, _nothing—”_

“You have. _You have.”_

He looked unhinged, his eyes wide, hair tousled. When he sank his teeth into her neck, it was every bit as punishing as it had been in the beginning, and she struggled and clawed and pushed against him. “Stop this,” she said. “Stop. Loki, this is not what you _want.”_

He pulled away for the briefest moment, and she shuddered as she felt the blood run down her neck; it had been so long since he had been so careless, and somehow that frightened her even more than the rough way he was handling her. _Carelessness_ meant that the monster was fully untethered, driven only by hunger and wrath.

“You have no idea _what I want,”_ he snarled, and then his teeth returned to her throat.

If not for his magic sustaining her, he might’ve killed her that night.

 

* * *

 

“Matholwch,” Branwen said, “it has been some time.”

Her arm and shoulder were aching and painfully stiff, but it was worth it, so very _worth_ it, because she would be free soon, she was _sure_ it…

“You’ve been trying to avoid thinking of us,” he told her, flipping some of his long hair over his shoulder. “Your people. Your family. Your _responsibilities.”_

“I owe _nothing_ to anyone else. When I leave this place, I am a free woman. I have no responsibilities - not to _you,_ not to my family… You’ve all left me here to _rot_ with him. Why would I owe you _anything_ more than what I’ve already given?”

“You owed us _obedience,”_ he retorted, “and when that failed, you at least owed us _loyalty._ You knew what you were meant to do, if you failed.”

She struck the mortar with her trowel, flinching when it rang out a bit more loudly than what she normally considered ‘safe.’ “It does not matter,” she said. “Even if I still had the poison, I would not use it.”

“You are a fool.”

“Perhaps. But I am going to survive.”

 

* * *

 

He was vulnerable to extreme heat, she discovered.

Really, given the fact that he was of Jotunheim, she should’ve suspected it sooner. An ember from the kitchen fire popped and landed on his arm, and Loki had hissed in pain, swatting it away… but not before it had burned a small hole in his perfect, smooth skin.

It healed quickly enough, of course, and he barely seemed fazed, but at least it was _something._

She kissed his reddened skin, the wheels in her mind spinning. How to use it against him?

And what would he do if he knew what she was planning?

 

* * *

 

“You look beautiful in the sunlight,” he told her, wrapped sleepy and loose-limbed around her on her bed, the false Midgardian sky shining brightly above them. “So beautiful, and so _sweet.”_

Branwen wished that she could slip away once he fell asleep, but he was certain to notice. It was too dangerous, spending time with him this way, too close to the dreams, too close to _might-have-beens…_

“Thank you,” she said, “for the sunlight, even if it is not real. It… comforts me.”

A hum of acknowledgment was the only response she received, and then she felt him go slack, sleep claiming him. She watched the clouds pass by overhead and listened to the beating of his heart.

 

* * *

 

She was so close - _so close_ \- to breaking through the wall, and it simultaneously lifted her spirits and put her constantly on-edge. It had been far easier to allow herself to melt into Loki’s embrace and to submit, knowing that on some level, she was close to _success._ Was it not acceptable for her to take some measure of enjoyment from the time she had left with him, knowing that she would never see him again?

Of course, she should be _grateful_ at the idea of never seeing him again, or even exhilarated. She _should_ want him dead, as recompense for all of his many sins against her.

But she didn’t.

 _“Your fault that I want to live,”_ he’d said.

But he couldn’t.

 

* * *

 

The housecoat hung loosely on her shoulders as Branwen waited for him by the fire. He’d been gone from his chamber when she’d awoken, strangely enough, and she found herself lingering, perversely hoping that he might return and take her back to bed. She needed him. She loathed him, and she yearned to escape the castle, but she _needed_ him.

When the door slammed open, cracking against the stone wall, she spun on her heel; Loki stalked into the chamber, his fists clenched at his side. Branwen’s heart leapt to her throat.

“Loki?”

“Silence.” She could feel the energy crackling in the room as he drew close, and she stepped back, closer to the hearth. His eyes were nearly black. “I _found_ it, wench.”

“Found—”

“I found your _miserable_ attempt at a tunnel,” he spat. “How long?” Darting forward, he caught her by the collar, hauling her to her tiptoes. “How long have you been planning this?”

“I… From the beginning,” she said. “From the beginning.”

“You thought that you could _leave_ me? After everything... after _everything_ I have done, you thought that I would allow you to leave? You would _dare?”_

“Yes.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, now. Loki had never looked so murderous in all the time that they had been together, and there was no hunger in it - only anger. _Betrayal._

“I will chain you to the bed,” he said. “I will make you _howl,_ girl, and you will forget that a world outside of me _exists—”_

And then he cut off abruptly, staring at the white-hot fire poker protruding from his abdomen. He released her, taking a staggering step back, and Branwen stared wide-eyed for a moment, too horrified by what she’d done to take advantage of his surprise.

But then their eyes met as he fell to his knees, his fingers wrapped around the handle, and she knew that if she did _not_ move, he was going to kill her. _“I am sorry,”_ she sobbed, and then she ran for her life.

She could hear his roar echoing through the hallways as she ran, and then the sounds of his pursuit came not long afterwards. He was too enraged to be subtle about it, and it became a race against time - they were both heading towards the same destination.

Branwen reached the loosened stones first, and she struck them with all of her might, calling on strength that she didn’t even know she possessed, willing her inner magic to lend her aid, wishing that she knew any sort of sorcery. The stones shifted, then finally broke free, and she heard him crying her name as the last of them fell out of its place, sunlight seeping in through the gap.

Loki stood just inside the curl of the stairwell, shielding his eyes with one hand, the other clutching his stomach. “Don’t,” he rasped, edging closer to the rays of sunlight spilling across the floor. _“Don’t.”_

Perched in the hole she’d cleared, Branwen froze, torn in her moment of triumph. If she left… if she left, there was no going back. Wasn’t that what she wanted? _But Loki…_

She saw him tense as he prepared to lunge towards her, and she threw herself into the sunlight, feeling the magic of the wards ripple and bend as she pushed her way through. He howled, and she turned back for only a moment, only long enough to see him pressing against the magical barrier, his face contorted and strikingly inhumane.

“Branwen!”

“I will find a way,” she cried. “I will find a way to save you, or destroy you, to end this, I swear it—”

But he roared her name again, much too lost in his rage to hear her, his hands blackening as the power of the barrier fought against his own.

Tears blurring her vision, she turned and fled, running through the forest as fast as she could, branches and twigs tearing at her skin. The sunlight burned and nearly blinded her, and she sobbed freely as she went, for herself, for _him…_

“I will,” she said. “I will.”

But she did not look back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. This one was hard to write, I have to say. A bleak ending... but perhaps a bit of a positive turn, as our heroine manages to escape? 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I'd love to know if you enjoyed it!
> 
> <3  
> MoA

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by starscreamloki on [Tumblr](https://starscreamloki.tumblr.com/post/178419198916/vampire-loki), based on [this imagine](https://starscreamloki.tumblr.com/post/178417984886/imagine-loki-being-resurrected-with-the-magic).
> 
> A Dark!Loki fic for Halloween. It won't be getting fluffy or happy, so please mind the warnings, and I hope you enjoy reading!


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